The Cape of the Sinner's Tongue xxx Part I
by sympathex
Summary: [PostAWE] The Cape of the Sinner's Tongue is an impassable strait off the islands of the Caribbean, haunted by a mysterious phantom known only as: The Ghost Raider. Further summary inside! WxE, JxE
1. Prologue

**Authors: **_savvysparrow _and _ladyofthesilent_  
**Rating**: R for Violence, Language and Sexual Situations  
**Characters**: The PotC-crew and several OCs  
**Chapters**: Not sure, yet, but will be novel-length  
**Disclaimer**: Though we wish we owned the characters of POTC, especially Jack, we are but humble pirates. All characters, motivations, dialogues and in some cases costumes belong to Disney.

**Summary**:

The Cape of the Sinner's Tongue is an impassable strait off the islands of the Caribbean, haunted by a mysterious phantom known only as: _The Ghost Raider_. The Raider's activities have caused the EITC to double its presence in the Caribbean waters and piracy is at stake once more. Old and new alliances must be formed, as a world that was once destroyed must be rebuilt to brave the dawn of a new era.

Can Jack, Elizabeth and Will put aside their differences and stand together?

* * *

**Prologue **

The raven tresses of the sea swarmed in malcontent, slapping the sturdy beams of the _Indentured Bride_ like the punishing whip of the boatsun. Silence dripped foreboding from the cool night air, a sound so heavy it condescended with the iridescent fog whetting the deck of the apprehensive ship.

Two sailors, their rough faces bathed in the devilish glow of the lamps searched the foggy horizon, their eyes wary of the sharp teeth-like volcanic rocks that had slowed their ship's progress. The _Bride_ had rocked through perilous weather from England, past the bitter winters of the Atlantic into the balmy embrace of the Caribbean Sea. The heat of the tropics welcomed them like a lover with an open embrace, but her fair smile had been two faced; while the seas had smoothed to glass, there were other lurking dangers. The prettiest of smiles concealed the most debauch and devious of intentions. Fair Caribbean had armed herself with a strait of vicious rocks, notorious for claiming the lives of honest English ships, ripping through the ship's bowels like the razor sharp blade of a bayonet—The Cape of the Sinner's Tongue. These treacherous waters did not stir the stoutest hearted sailor to trepidation--there were the stories. Whispers circulated with the faintest puffs of wind, of a black-hearted sailor who pillaged any ship bearing the seal of the Crown.

"Drop canvas--steady as she lies--maintain the current course. Under no circumstances are you to deviate. Do I make myself clear?" The Captain's cold, hard voice reverberated in clipped, urgent, undertones. His voice, tone laced with scorn, contained none of the fear his crew indulged in. Engagement in superstitious notions and foolish flights of fantasy were a vice in which he never allowed. With haughty disdain, he stepped forward to view his rabble of men; he'd hand selected them from the lowliest taverns, gambling dens and prisons in London. They were a festering, rotting lot—filthy, wretched to the core. Their reviling stench forced him to press his scented handkerchief to his raw, sutured nose which he vainly took pains to shield from prying eyes. The only order to his hideously arranged features was his attire, which was precisely aligned; no button sat out of place, his powdered hair was tied with an appropriate black ribbon, pulled so tightly the loops appeared strangled by the tension.

"I will be in my cabin. If the circumstances alter from the present, you have my orders." An officer dared to interject the orders with a polite cough into his hand. The crimson red of his uniform shone brightly in the grim surroundings, the only visible marker for the Captain's searching eyes through the opaque mist.

"Sir, I hardly see the purpose of navigating the straits by night. Given the fog, would it not be better to engage the enemy in the brightness of ..."

The Captain rounded on his Lieutenant, the large lapels of his lavishly adorned coat caught in the winds of motion; his lace handkerchief was thrown to the ground in contempt. His disfigured face, twisted with scars and burned flesh, was made uglier by the tell-tale symptoms of apoplectic temper. He studied the younger man's keen gaze; innocence masked with contempt. They, the men he had gathered from the barracks of the royal Navy, thought him a fool for pursuing a phantom—a pirate myth. They knew nothing of this apparition, what he was capable of and the chaos that ensued in his terrible wake.

"Do not question my methods Lieutenant Hayes!" He snarled, leveling a blazing gaze that caused the questioning subordinate to take a step back in fear. The façade of serene levity had slipped away, revealing a soul as twisted by the searing fire of revenge as the Captain's dry, peeling flesh.

"We are not being hunted by an ordinary man." He released his grip on the lapels of stalwart Hayes as he struggled to keep his temper and wild desperation in check. His demonstrative display of bad humor drew the curious stares of the crew who had pretended to keep up with their work as the sails shifted to their resting place, tied safely to the mast while they were hanging with baited breath on every word. When they were mustered he had told them nothing, save for the barest of details of the promise of a purse of coins for each _if_ they reached their destination.

"If we are to reach the coast of Abyssinia, we must first defeat the cunning of the Raider. Our course does not alter. If we fail to fetch our cargo, it will be your commission as an officer…" The Captain regretted the use of the infernal name that escaped through the gates of his swollen, purple lips. Activity on the ship stilled to a halt, and though the night was vigilant, he swore he heard a gasp of horror from one of the fair-haired cabin boys. The Captain and the crew regarded one another with blinking stares of gravest misgivings. He drew a hesitant breath as he studied their perplexed expressions. How he hated the wide, vacant expression—they reminded him of the sheep that littered the landscape of his country estate—ripe for the slaughter with no notion of their impending, inevitable doom. Their stupidity made their presence aboard his ship intolerable but they were a necessary evil. As they continued to regard him with eyes hungry for the strength of leadership, gapes of hope that he might bring meaning to their wasted lives, the Captain struggled to formulate the correct response of lies and truth. His mind wove words on a loom, lacing the rows of pronounced syllables in a tidy row, to create a blanket in which he might effectively smother their suspicions.

"Yes, it's true; tonight we face the Ghost Raider, a phantom of cunning intellect and savagery. His men will show you no mercy; they'll not grant you quarter, even if you were to beg with your final breath." His lips twitched in irony as he became trapped in his spun web of deceit until even he believed the nonsensical fabrication.

"You must stand as men of the realm of England. Fight as though your very lives depended upon the success of our mission. We must show this Raider that we are men of equal savagery; the wishes of the Crown cannot be spurned by the fanaticism of a ghost story. Progress, gentleman, is a force of reckoning that is inexorable. Keep your wits about you or you may find yourself ensnared by Lucifer's honeyed tongue." He believed nothing of the lore of Heaven and Hell. Ever a man of logic, sound reasoning of the mind was the only religion of merit. These men, however, were incapable of thought beyond what they were told. Men of faith were easily led; it was to his benefit they believed the Raider a man with unholy powers.

Their ignorance would fuel hatred and serve his purpose—to capture the ghostly specter to ease the endless financial woes his interference had wrought against the Company. His words echoed against the cavernous walls of the straits, against the rocks which acted as observant sentinels. The blank stares of apprehension had melted from the wary faces. Superstitious, unwashed sailors had been transformed by the power of words into brave soldiers; they were united behind their leader to fight to the death against a shapeless specter.

He fixed his wintry, grey eyes on his second in command, a soundless reminder of the stakes of their perilous game and the cost of failure. The inflamed soft tissue of his startling puckered face melded into the darkness until all that was left of the Captain was the sound of retreating footsteps and the mechanical click of a pistol—his pawns were strategically poised to strike on the board.

"Why ain't we goin' no faster? Cap'n's asking for trouble. Bad omen this is, trapped in the Cape of the Sinner's Tongue what on Friday the thirteenth and mired in fog. You've heard the stories... About...him..." The sailor, a burly man with thick hands and a thicker neck kept his voice low, as though afraid he might be overheard. He sat on a gun powder barrel with his back against the mast; his calloused hands worked a frayed section of rope, revitalizing the shattered edges with his patience. His nerves resembled the rope he worked; frayed to the edges in their exhaustion. He had a strong stomach; rough seas, treacherous bandits, a hen pecking wife he would brave with courage but those terrors paled in comparison to the rumors of what stalked their ship. His companion, a gaunt man by the name of Willis, whose penchant for liquor had left him with a hand that trembled with palsy, found that the whole of his body shivered with uncontrollable paranoia.

"Not another word about it, Jonesy. They say the mere mention of the man brings him from the darkest regions of the depths…" He ran a trembling hand through the thin sheet of hair that graced the sun burnt portions of his scalp. The Captain had cruelly siphoned the nightly rations of rum, claiming that he wanted a crew of level headed sailors. Willis thought it pitiless to deny a group of dying men liquid fortification against the impeding storm. Had their leader's disfigurement not proven so fierce to behold; it was the cool, burning hatred of the eyes that gave him a monstrous appearance, Willis would have encouraged the crew to mutiny.

Jonsey ceased his tireless braiding and fixed his friend with an uneasy stare.

"B-b-best never to speak of him again—don't dare breathe the name. He'd slice your throat if you'd sully his ears with the sound of your voice whispering that dreaded moniker." A pulley creaked, aged with rust and use; a wet braided rope was tossed to the roughly hewn deck with a wet slap. Both men jumped raggedly to their feet, startled by the sharp contrast to the oppressive calm. One of their fellow crewmen coiled the wet rope with precision at his feet. Jonsey could scarcely make out the man's shape and a scuffed pair of boots was the only distinguishing feature that reassured him that the crew man was friend not foe.

A snort of contempt echoed in the hush; the man dared to balk at their stories! Every sailor who'd made the journey from England to the Indies knew the stories were irrefutable, truths told by the men who had managed to escape the raids with only their lives and their willing tongues.

Jonsey and his emaciated companion glared into the darkness that obscured the eavesdropper. With a sniff, he ignored the man's wordless commentary and continued. Let him laugh! He'd had a cousin who'd survived one of the infamous raids, though he had admittedly never been the same since the encounter.

"I heard his eyes could burn a hole straight through your head—missing his arm too, chewed straight through it after being shackled by the devil himself. And that's not the half of it—I heard he lost his leg on account of a cannon ball ran right through it. They say he laughed and turned to stab some poor blighter in the gut. One of his own men he stabbed too—cruel if you asks me." Jonsey rambled; his trembling fingers reached compulsively for his rope again. To his great ire, the man's chuckling continued.

"Go ahead an' laugh. I hope he steals your tongue." He remarked with some venom as he gave the braided rope a final twist. The taunting laugher continued to rise into the night's fog in a long crescendo before it dropped into silence.

"Listen to you pretty pair of birdies twittering on. I'll tell ye the real story—it'll curdle the blood and make ye go half mad." The man's voice rose with a reedy timbre, shifting mysteriously from their left, to their right, and all at once engulfed them like a wave.

Jonsey's fingers stilled; the rope slipped from his fingers and fell listlessly to the ship's deck.

"J-j-jonsey…" Willis voice quivered with dread as he struggled to follow the shapes of the encompassing fog. Swirling mist took on ghostly contours. Willis saw the visage a misshapen man, with a hump on his shoulder the size of a small bolder next to a small child who streaked with ghostly glee across the deck, a razor sharp cutlass in each hand. Jonsey let out a small shriek of fear and stumbled to his feet, tripping over the rope he had dropped. He scooted on his haunches toward the gun powder barrel. Like a frightened infant, he clung to it, his lips whispering the Rosary he hadn't uttered since childhood. Mary protect him! The words soon escaped him, and all he could manage was an announcement of their fate; a shout to warn the others before it was too late.

"The Raider! The Ghost Raider is here!" He groaned with dread, hardly able to urge his crippled throat to scream. Willis stood frozen, his jaw dangling open at the hinges, unable to move as a high pitched wail so like a banshee's scream tore in unison from the throats of the Raider's crewmen. The Indentured Bride was hopelessly surrounded! Crewmen of the Bride took up the alarm, the warning bell was sounded but it was too late. They were ambushed, defeated before they even managed a single volley; the once tranquil night was filled with the sepulchral screams of fallen men.

A withered hand, a sliver of silver slipped through the darkness, formed and circled like a snake until it turned its sights on Willis. Petrified, Jonsey's words of warning ripped his chest but lodged in his throat. Before his eyes, his friend of two years was jerked by the ghostly hand of fog into the darkness; he heard the shrill scream of his comrade and then silence--the oppressive silence of an enemy who had paused to draw breath before a final, killer blow. He was left to imagine the carnage of his fallen friend but his mind was wholly fixed on Willis' sad fate--the Raider approached.

"Do you know what he does with the men he captures? The treacherous villains who deserve death for their part in despicable deeds? Do you…"

Jonsey shook his head so hard his cheeks flapped against the force. Try as he could, he was unable to summon an answer to the Raider's question. He pressed the barrel more tightly to his chest and with his eyes twisted shut he thought of the life he had left behind in England. He'd preferred the life he had led with his sharp-tongued shrewish wife and mother-in-law to this abysmal end.

"He takes the men what works for the Company for pittance and drags 'em down to the depths. The Company steals lives, mate…" Each word was accented with a step forward from the Raider. His ship's deck shook in waking terror of each enormous step—Jonsey was convinced the man was gigantic. His heart leapt into his throat; he wrenched his eyes more tightly shut so that the Raider would not cleave them from his skull. These were his last moments, stalked by the growling tiger of death, accompanied by the drumming of his heart and the compelling click of the cocked hammer of a pistol.

The Raider's footsteps hesitated to a stop a breath away from Jonsey. He felt a rush of air from the swirl of the Raider's coat tails as their unearthly, damp texture brushed his cheek. He squeezed one watering eye open loathing his desire to view the scene but eager to capture the scope of his doom in the same breathless moment. The Raider, enshrouded with a fiendish mantle of gleaming white fog towered over him, his pistol aimed at truly toward the crest of Jonsey's skull.

"P-p-please—show mercy. I beg you…" In the lamp light, there was a glint of white; the Raider barred his teeth in a sickening grin.

The pistol exploded into the silence with the brilliant flash of exploding vermillion and gold powder. There was a sickening thud; Jonsey gasped as though the air had been pilfered from his lungs by the ghostly fingers of fog. Mist invaded his vision, and his world went black…


	2. Chapter 1

The sea raged and the gulls screamed, or so it seemed to the silent on-lookers of the Shipwreck City council meeting. Pirates rarely saw eye to eye and a gathering in which they all were meant to agree on one single course of action rarely resulted in anything more than a headache. This particular debate was more heavily contested than the others. It was rare that any action outside of the realm of piracy made an impact on their fair city, but recent events had set the city abuzz with rumors of a mysterious Raider who struck only at night. His raids had drawn attention to the illicit pirate trade and had forced the various pirating crewmen and Captain alike to sheathe their squabbles and decide upon one course of action.

A picture of tranquility, Elizabeth Turner looked on from her seat at the table with a puzzled expression. Two quarrelling pirates stood nose to nose, Samuel Barber, known to her as Saucy Sam and Thomas Marks, known as Two Fingered Tom. Though Tom had managed to keep all his fingers, the same could not be said of his teeth—the results of the surgeries were excruciating to her eye—with a mouth filled with gums, she hardly understood how it was he could manage any speech more coherent than a whistle. Sam was, purportedly, a wanted man on three continents though she had never bothered to ask him why. She knew him to be a kind man with a penchant for the rare spices she sold in her shop. Every few days he'd come wandering by asking for red currant wine or essence of thyme or rosemary. He never explained what he did with the spices; her son had suggested in an insinuating tone she found irritating that it had less to do with spices and more to do with the idea that Sam fancied her.

She'd never understood why it was when the realm of piracy was threatened that the only subject they could all agree on was that they ought to call a council meeting. All it ever accomplished was the draw of pistols, the fear of death and tense moments that resulted only in the agreement that they ought to disagree.

As she scanned the room, she saw she was not the only person close to exasperation. Teague, Pirate Lord of Madagascar and Keeper of the Code sat perched in his chair at the head of the table, his withered face buried in his hand in a gesture of disgust and irritation. The beads and crosses that adorned his hair caught the glint of the afternoon sun. They drooped around his face to adding weight to the sagging lines that crossed his features from his hooked, prominent nose.

There was wisdom in his face; not the wisdom of age, but of experience. So often Elizabeth would gaze upon that countenance and see a little of her own weary features, aged more by the events life than the passage of time. There were moments, however, when an inexplicable impish expression would lift the dark hollows of his black eyes. In those moments, she no longer saw him as the great leader with heavy responsibility but as another man entirely. They were alike, the great Captain Teague and Jack Sparrow, most especially when she said or did something that amused them.

They shared the same smile; concealed by the edges of their facial hair, she'd always known to what degree Jack was pleased by the angle of the curled ends of his mustache. As though aware of her gaze, Teague lifted his head from his hand and fixed her with a pointed, questioning stare. With a startled blink, Elizabeth guiltily drew her eyes away from Teague. She'd been remiss in her duties; she lost hope in regaining her understanding of the purpose of today's meeting, though as she listened more intently, she realized that the council was still wavering indecisively on carrying a motion to action.

"Won't do no good, pure and simple." Saucy Sam crossed his arms across his chest and turned away from Two Fingered Tom, who was wiping away the spittle that had been sprayed across his face during the climax of their argument.

"Fool! O' course it'll do good—look at what happened the last time. The armada turned way before we even fired shot—they was shaking in their boots, says I." Tom twisted round on his heel, looking cross and red in the face.

Teague's head dropped to his chest and fixed the arguing committee with a withering stare. Elizabeth shifted uncomfortably in her seat. Unlike his son, Teague was quick to temper and those who raised his ire quickly found themselves at the mercy of his pistol--he was a deadly accurate shot. Hesitantly, Elizabeth interrupted fearing that they might have another pair of dead bodies to drag from the council chamber, though she was sorely tempted to draw her own pistol to restore order.

"At a tremendous cost, if I might remind you." She found herself bellowing over the pair of belligerent peacocks, who were attempting to out do one another for argument's sake, rather than trying to find a commonality in the debate that had embroiled the council.

"Our triumph had less to do with the fear of our enemy and everything to do with our sacrifice. Brave men were lost forever…" The pensive note of regret in her voice captured the attention of the feuding pirates. All heads turned sharply toward her, and she was self-consciously aware that every eye in the room was taking stock of her mettle. She'd been brought to her feet in her outrage; a rough, soothing hand rested over hers and Elizabeth turned to acknowledge the owner. Will's dark eyes radiated sympathy, and he knew her well enough to know that her temper was close to the boiling point.

There were only a few members of Shipwreck City who were not aware of her story. The constant whispers followed her wherever she went; in her shop, they smiled at her with reverence and a touch of irony on their lips—she was once the brave Mrs. Turner, the fierce Pirate King and once equally fierce companion to the Captain of the Flying Dutchman.

"If we are to do anything, we must first have some sort of strategy. The risk of war with the Armada is not to be taken lightly. Before we rush to battle, we must understand our enemies. If this man is raiding Company ships—he holds no allegiance to our side. We must first understand his motivations…his inner most thoughts…" Mutterings stirred the house; she had their attention.

"And I say the man is no threat to us." Teague's rich voice permeated the corners of the room, drawing the Pirates who had not risked the chaos to step forward in curiosity. Elizabeth's brows lifted archly; he'd been repressing his opinion on the matter of the mysterious Raider because it differed from the majority. Most of the pirates wanted to find the man and string him up by his thumbs. Typical! Teague's son was forever avoiding a fight when he could. It wasn't surprising in the least that Jack Sparrow had learned the habit from somewhere.

"No threat, says you? Poppycock, says I! Lost twelve stalwart men meself after they raked the side of me ship when they tried to board her. And the cargo of rum could not have been lost. Bollocks to the man who loses a shipment of rum what for fear of the Company."

Elizabeth's head snapped round to gage Teague's reaction. Though it was faint, she swore she saw the faintest twitch of his ring adorned pinky finger, as though he were considering a reach for his pistol.

"It's true; the added presence of the EITC in our waters had made honest piracy more difficult of late. And I admit that if we do not put a stop to it, the chances are great that our very way of life may be altered forever. More companies have expressed their dissatisfaction with the activities of the Raider and our ships, our cargo and means of life are in dire need of protection. That does not mean our only course of action is to rise up in arms against a fleet of company ships, poised to destroy piracy for their own lucrative means. They only need an excuse to launch an attack…" Elizabeth's voice faltered as another voice took up the call for action.

"Shipwreck City must make a stand. If they do not, it will be to the ruin of us all," Will piped up with strength in his voice as he rose slowly from his seat. Elizabeth wrenched her head from Teague's displeasure and favored Will with a sharp frown.

"We can wring our hands no longer. If the Raids continue, it will only embolden our enemies in the EITC to scrutinize our fortress further. We cannot withstand another direct attack. The straits are dire indeed—we must pursue this Ghost Raider."

The speech, as prettily arrayed as it was, stirred Teague from his seat and the lines of his face were stretched to one, so great was the displeasure in his frown. She agreed with Will; they could not remain at Shipwreck City and do nothing. The tensions between the EITC and the remaining Pirates ran high, and while Pirates were no longer being executed by the hundreds, the threat was ever present, a thick cloud that hung over the city. No one wanted to relive the nightmare of more than ten years ago.

"They say he steals people's souls and devours 'em for supper. Be that the enemy you'd all wish to make your final judgment with? I says a pox on the council of fools. There be none here with the courage to fight the villainous Raider." Teague fixed each arguing member with a chilling stare, his dark eyes hard as black obsidian daring any man to rise to the unspoken challenge he'd issued.

"We must engage him in a dialogue; surely we can find some common ground. There are other avenues to explore than outright war. What of the ancient tradition of Parlay?" Elizabeth suggested with a warning glance to Will. If he wasn't careful, his speeches would incite the Council to war, a war they were in no way prepared to fight. From the corner of her eye, she found she had earned one of Teague's rare smiles. She'd gained his admiration, and there was no higher praise than a smile from his lips, particularly when it involved the word 'parlay'.

"The man who attacks these ships does so at our peril. It is he who stands to gain--we'll lose everything. Clearly he is a man beyond the edge of reason; there comes a moment when parlay can do nothing and the only course is action," Will argued, his gaze fixed on the council. Intentionally, he avoided Elizabeth's pointed stare.

"They say that he cannot be found or killed, boy. He is a monster who lurks in an impossible strait: The Cape of the Sinner's Tongue," Teague hastened to interrupt, sensing there was a greater tension in the air beyond that of the council's disagreements. Will leaned both his palms against the council table, looking every inch the impervious Captain he had once been. The two men locked eyes, an epic battle fought with haughty silent resistance.

"Then I will reckon with him there. They say he takes only gold for his spoils. Why would a ghost from the next life have need for the riches of ours?" Will's voice was low and dangerous; menacing in his determination to fight. He'd had more than enough experience with the spirits of the past life. He was convinced that the Raider was a mortal man. Elizabeth watched as Teague's hand shifted to the butt of his pistol.

"No!" she intervened, seeing that Teague was more than prepared to silence Will's rebellious opinion forever with the crack of his pistol. Her voice was overshadowed by the rallying cry of the council. At last they had heard a solution from a man brave enough to offer it and they welcomed it with a joyous 'huzzah.'

"You ever were a rash fool, William Turner…" Teague stepped forward from his position at the head of the table and with solemn diffidence, offered Will his hand.

"Take my ship. I've no use for it, and it'll suffer from dry rot without use. She'll need a Captain, and ye'll be needing a fair ship to find this scurvelous phantom." Teague's lips were a straight line, and Elizabeth noted that beneath the deep tan his skin had taken a deathly pallor, his posture pushed down by an unseen weight. Their sentiments were the same; Will's decision was fool hardy at best and Elizabeth felt an unfavorable ill wind sweep through the council's chamber. With gratitude, Will took Teague's hand though their smiles were tightly strained with mistrust. There were moments when it seemed Will saw as much of Jack Sparrow in the man as she did and the residual dislike had transferred through the generations. Will turned to address the council as their new leader.

"I am in need of a hearty crew, able-bodied men valiant enough to face a man and a monster. Who's with me?" He bellowed with a spirit of energy and courage. The men of the council rushed forward to shake Will's hand for his nerve offering him their sentiment of respect and their services in his mission. Elizabeth was swept backwards by the crush of smelly pirates; her cheek was pressed against a velvet vest and a linen shirt of a heavily perspiring man before she was shoved onto the border of the room.

"Will! Will!" she cried desperately to gain his attention as the crowd swallowed her whole. A man's elbow jabbed into the delicate flesh between her shoulder blade and collar bone, sending her reeling backwards. Flailing, she continued to try to attract Will's attention, but the crowd had swarmed to an overwhelming size.

"Well I never!" she huffed with an irritated sigh, her arms caught up the fringes of her shawl as though to protect herself from the cold. Will smiled broadly as hands were shoved in his face. He took the time to shake each one of them, his head inclined to listen as they clapped him on the back or spoke words of enthusiasm about their mission. Elizabeth prepared to launch herself back into to the crowd to pull Will bodily out by the arm to scold him, and nearly did so when she caught sight of lonely body on the outskirts, lingering in the shadows.

Teague surveyed the scene devoid of his usual remote detachment. He was disappointed with the outcome of the meeting and it seemed to have struck a personal chord. He mourned their decision and loathed himself for allowing it in the same breath; Elizabeth shared his sentiments. The call to declare war on an unknown enemy was reckless and they both knew it. He'd granted Will his ship for that very reason; in an effort to protect Will from himself and in doing so, protect her. For that, she felt the stirrings of warmth and gratitude. In that way, he was very much like his son. She tore her eyes away from the encircling, fawning masses to thank him, but he had disappeared. The only trace that remained were the dregs of a haunting melody played by a stringed instrument, a morose Celtic tune that waxed and then waned into the rhythmic jolt of the voices.


	3. Chapter 2

The lights of Shipwreck City were reflected on the water, tiny, golden sparks in an ever-moving blackness and Elizabeth clung to their comforting presence as she walked across the suspension bridge leading from the town centre. Her feet led her automatically to the small house built inside of the volcanic crater that surrounded the cove, protecting the city and its inhabitants like a vast, impregnable fortress, its only portal an impassable cave known as the Devil's Throat.

Distant voices floated through the night air, losing their substance to its all-consuming darkness, a sharp contrast to the icy silence between her and Will until they reached their veranda. A flickering lantern bid a homey welcome to them, as it had for nearly eleven years. The welcoming light summoned memories; Elizabeth remembered how she'd walked the cliffs with Captain Teague and his dog, savouring the old man's quiet company.

There had been no bridge; the only way to access the house was a small path winding down from the rocks. The house had been empty and neglected, the roof partly uncovered and the clay veranda was distorted and fragmented by thick cracks.

'It's been too long this place has had its share of children's laughter,' Teague had said solemnly, his voice thick with memories that only he seemed capable of grasping. She'd mustered the courage to ask but one question: "Who built it?"

"I did." His reply had been curt, his voice a fortress against further intrusion into corners of the mind a stranger's eye was rarely granted a glimpse of. She respected his unspoken boundaries, as he did hers. In all those years, they rarely spoke of Jack; only random remarks from time to time sustained her insatiable curiosity. They floated past like a summer's breeze, too short-lived and fragile to cling to, and she sometimes thought that these moments were like Jack himself. His presence in her life, significant as it had been, was surreal and almost dreamlike when looked upon with the welcome distance of time and space. Those memories belonged to someone else's life, and she couldn't bring herself to remember him in any other way.

Teague had asked her to take the house from him, not a gift of charity, born out of compassion and generosity, but a gift from one king to another. Months had passed during which the town's best craftsmen had breathed new life into the finely carved railings and wooden pillars. They'd rebuilt the veranda and repaired the roof, and when she'd finally been able to move in, not long after William was born, it had been the proudest and most beautiful house in all of Shipwreck City. It still was grand, though tonight, it couldn't exactly be dubbed the most peaceful one.

"How could you do that?" Elizabeth burst out; the metallic clink of the door slamming shut behind her punctuated and proclaimed her anger through the entry way. "How could you make such a mindless, completely preposterous offer?"

Will stared at her fiercely, offering stony silence as his only reply. His eyes, his clenched shaking fists underscored his grim determination until stubborn resolve gave way to something softer, something which might have been remorse.

When he couldn't bear her reproachful gaze any longer, he turned his back to her and pulled off his coat, throwing it over an ornate hat stand, the possession of a French émigré until it had found its way to Shipwreck City and into Elizabeth Turner's hallway.

He strode over to the parlour room and threw himself into one of the cushiony, richly upholstered Italian armchairs. Will stretched his legs and made an effort to procure an observable yawn.

It was evident he wished to avoid the debate that was lingering over their heads like storm clouds. The threatening roll of roaring thunder was imaginable, the sound mirrored by the thump of Elizabeth's boots being kicked off and unceremoniously sailing into a corner. Her fury was as unpredictable to him as the weather.

When his wife planted herself in front of him, arms akimbo, he knew his chances of avoiding the discussion were nil.

"What were you thinking, William Turner?" Elizabeth demanded, her voice trembling with rage and the need for answers.

For a brief moment, he allowed himself to lay his head back and close his eyes, collecting himself before he dared to look at her again.

"The Raider is threat to all who live here," He began somewhat awkwardly. "What did you think I'd do? Watch as my wife and son starve?" Elizabeth gaped at him in disbelief, then brought a hand to her forehead as though to feel whether she'd caught the same strange sickness that had caused his temporary lapse of good judgement.

"For heaven's sake, Will! No one here will starve anytime soon. The town has enough supplies to survive a besiegement of more than two years. Besides, it is rather more likely the cove will soon be flooded with dead bodies, stabbed in the back and shot twice in the head, but that's nothing we haven't dealt with before. This is a pirate city, after all!"

Will straightened sharply, his posture vertical as he glared at his wife with glittering eyes.

"How can you speak like that with our son sleeping upstairs?" His voice was low and calm, but his anger was most acutely felt when his voice took on a soft, cold tone.

Elizabeth opened her mouth to retaliate then closed it again and took a deep, calming breath.

"I have lived here for more than ten years. I know the inner most workings of the city as does our son. I am perfectly aware Shipwreck City is not Port Royal, but we have certain guidelines, rules laid down in an ancient document we call …"

"The Code," Will groaned with a roll of his eyes. "How could I ever forget about that blasted writ?" They glared at each other, neither of them wishing to concede defeat.

The warm, flickering light of the candles painted his handsome features with ever-moving shadows, softening them, and Elizabeth thought he looked tired and exhausted, as though his decision to chase the Raider had taken his last reserve of strength.

Elizabeth's anger dissipated into thin air, leaving room for an emptiness that seemed to pull her heart down to her stomach. Dropping to her knees, she put a soft hand on his arm and looked up to him, her apology spoken in deep hollows of her eyes.

"Don't you understand?" she whispered, "I lost you once, in a battle that wasn't yours to fight. We didn't have a choice then but now we do. I believe the Raider is as human as you or I. Consequently, I am certain that he can be made to see reason. Why not try and …"

"Parlay," he finished for her quietly; his hands consciously avoided hers.

"I know, you suggested it and I have taken it into consideration. But where did it lead us in the past? We always had to fight in the end…" He looked as though he felt he was a man without a port in the midst of a raging storm.

"It seems that even old Teague agreed with me." His last words were laced with thick sarcasm, his mistrust of the old pirate obvious in every syllable.

"Teague nearly shot you," she pointed out with an uncomfortable chuckle.

"But he did offer me his ship. That has to count for something…" Will couldn't help but feel a tiny spark of triumph even though he knew perfectly well what Teague's intentions had been.

"Yes. He thinks you're foolish and that you won't succeed," Elizabeth was quick to remind him.

"Seems to be a family trait," Will shot back, unable to suppress his bitterness.

"I know how you feel about him, but accept he was trying to be reasonable." She sighed heavily and the strength in her shoulders wilted.

"And it isn't reasonable to try and put an end to the Raider's dark schemes?" He shifted in his seat and took hold of her hand, intertwining his fingers with hers. "You saw it for yourself, Elizabeth," he continued desperately. "No one was willing to take action against him." His justifications sounded forced to her ears, and as she observed his features, she saw that Will appeared to despise his own convictions.

"They are pirates; their credo is: 'fight to run away'. Action is not in their nature..." Her fingers were limp in his, cold and motionless. Her eyes dropped in disappointment to the floor sending shivers down his spine. Will considered his choice in comparison to her implications and for the first time, he realized all of the ramifications of his decision.

"You want me to be like them? Is that it?" he countered to distract himself from the truth he'd been faced with only moments before.

"No. I want you to stay. Ten short months, in comparison to ten long years …" The words seemed to reach him from a faraway shore; yet another sword to his chest. Tenderly he took hold of her arms to pull her up into his lap feeling as though he was trying to cling to something that had already slipped away.

"My love for you never faltered," he heard himself reply involuntarily while he wrapped his arms around her body. It surprised him that the words held some semblance of truth.

"Nor will it now; but I have made my choice." Elizabeth didn't reply; she settled her head tranquilly against the groove of his shoulder and savoured a comfort she had been denied for far too long. Now she was on the verge of losing it again. Still, there was a portion of her heart that knew Will's choice had been inevitable. It was not only a reflection of his bravery and idealism, but of an incontrovertible truth: Will Turner had never been one to run away from his choices, but he always made them alone.

* * *

A forlorn pair of shoes lay on the beach, strategically placed to evade the reach of the water's greedy fingers– a portion of the portrait of a strangely anomalous morning tinted with the melancholic cries of the seagulls and the gentle lapping of the waves. It was not long after sunrise, and the air was thick with faint reminders of the night that had passed, crackling with dreams soon to be forgotten and memories easily brushed aside in daylight.

Elizabeth stood on the shore, her skirts lifted and her ankles bared to the caress of the sea, her eyes fixed on the horizon. They rested on the seascape that lay far beyond her reach where the white sails of the _Captive Swallow_ had disappeared only moments before. Outwardly she knew she should feel as if it had all happened before as though she were trapped in a strange repetitious nightmare. Was she stepping in the footprints and was the same sand wriggling between her toes?

She'd felt such loss eleven years ago; today she cried the same tears she'd cried that bitter day, and though it was completely irrational to do so, she clung to the memory. It had been a goodbye sweetened by the soft afterglow of lovemaking and the certainty of a love that would never fade. A love that would overcome time, space and supernatural powers beyond their control seemed so much more comforting than the farewell they'd shared this time: words left unspoken, questions too precarious to ask. All of it an act designed to preserve the fragility of their newly found, long sought after happiness.

Elizabeth's closed her eyes; the wind swept through the lose strands of hair surrounding her face and she listened to the waves. For minutes, she stood completely motionless. It occurred to her that perhaps she had been waiting for a sign as she had during the years she had been separated from Will. The sea had whispered to her then, had ensured her of his safety and undying love, had been hope and comfort until the day he had been returned to her, but today, it remained silent. No whispers or promises, only the sound of waves breaking upon the lonely shore. There was a nameless shadow, a fundamental difference from her stint of waiting eleven years ago; a nagging weight she found impossible to brush aside.

She wasn't alone, someone was watching her. Her eyes snapped opened and she spun around, prepared to find herself face to face with a familiar figure, Captain Teague perhaps – the man had an undeniable talent to turn up in what seemed like the most inopportune moment-, but there was nothing. Sand and rocks, the beach as empty and deserted as it had been when she'd witnessed Will's departure. She looked up to the cliffs towering above her, skimming them, but if anyone had been up there they'd already disappeared from sight.

Her eyes traced the bared rock down to where it cut off the sandy shore and reached into the sea, creating a small inlet. For a short moment, Elizabeth wondered whether someone could actually hide there. Unconsciously, she stepped closer to the rugged barrier and screwed her eyes to see more clearly. There was nothing but naked rock and jagged coastline. She shook her head to dismiss the strange sentiment of being stalked; she told herself that it was impossible for anyone to hide in a bay that could only be reached from the sea. An endeavour like that would have required a ship, and there was no possible way even a small schooner could have managed the feat –only a madman would have attempted the passage between the rocks.

Elizabeth decided half-heartedly that her mind had been playing tricks on her – probably her nerves and a lack of sleep. She spotted a seagull perched on one of the many black rocks littering the beach, cocking its head in a way that seemed designed to mock her. Impulsively, she picked up a handful of sand and threw it at the startled bird, causing it to fly off with an angered cry that made her ears ring.

"It's your fault," she muttered under her breath, unsure of whether she addressed the bird or someone entirely different. Disgruntled and anything but at peace with the world and herself, she snapped up her shoes and ran across the sand to the hidden path that led up the back to Shipwreck City.

* * *

A collection of eclectically shaped keys jangled merrily to match her step. Elizabeth rushed through the maze of alleys that wound their way through the tangle of broken hulls, neatly aligned steering wheels and protruding masts that was Shipwreck City. The sun had risen and the town's colourful population was oozing out of their various hideouts. The bolt holes ranged from vast suites of rooms, the furniture and carpeting of which would have put French nobility to shame, to small dens comprised of nothing but cocoa matting and the overpowering aroma of incense.

Her path rarely deviated from its charted course; she had the routine of someone having lived in a place forever. First she passed by the bakery of Mrs. Martin, which had never seen a Mr. Martin but was famous for its breads and pastries tasting similar in nature to the breads and pastries from Briny Mick's bakery on the opposite end of town. The only difference between the baked goods was that Mrs. Martin's tasted as though they were one day behind which was probably rather close to the truth.

Elizabeth lifted her hand to greet the elderly lady as she passed by her shop window, which had displayed the same skull-shaped doughnut ever since she'd moved to Shipwreck City. Without a second glance, she knew a weathered hand was waving enthusiastically behind the paned glass, beckoning for the chat she might have gotten any day but today.

She was already five minutes late, and she despised tardiness; a relic of her days as a pristine governor's daughter. Pirates, she had learned, considered punctuality beneath them which, of course, didn't keep them from expecting it of others. More than one man had made the acquaintance of Teague's quickly drawn pistol for arriving belatedly to his birthday party, and since the old pirate was usually one of her first clients to turn up every morning instinctively she quickened her pace. When she finally turned her steps onto the footbridge that crossed Bilge Water Bay, she spotted a tiny female frame standing beneath the sign that read "Pillage and Plunder".

Nell Maloney was a young, personable Irishwoman and the best – though maybe not the most knowledgeable – shop-assistant Elizabeth could think of. She'd hired her almost two years ago, when work in her shop became too frantic for her to manage by herself. Nell had never given her any reason to regret this decision—her disposition was as bright and cheery as the fiery texture of her auburn hair.

Her fair looks and jolly personality induced many a young man to buy whole shipments of goods, the use of which largely remained a mystery to them, and though Elizabeth had grown used to solitude she couldn't deny that she appreciated the girl's help and most especially her company.

"Good morning, Lizzie", Nell chirped with a good natured grin. Elizabeth unlocked the door and braced herself for the gush of town-news and gossip that was about to spout from the girl's pouting lips.

In truth, she rather hoped a breathtaking event had occurred during the night, so Nell would be so busy chattering that she would miss Elizabeth's contemplative silence. Unfortunately the day's exciting news was particularly unsuited to distract her from her musings and worse required her taking part in the conversation.

"The whole city is captivated by your husband," Nell began while pouring salt into a casket, her voice brimming with admiration.

"Is it really true he plans to confront the Ghost Raider all by himself?" Elizabeth resisted the urge to sigh. The subject was a sore one and not one she particularly cared to discuss with Nell.

"He's hardly all by himself considering that he left this morning with a crew of 37 men," Elizabeth retorted with feigned indifference. It wasn't until she'd said the words that it occurred to her she probably sounded like William when he tried to convince her that he'd already done his school work. Nell, however, seemed completely unaffected by her employer's brusqueness and continued ingenuously:

"But he was the only one who was brave enough to face him. My brother told me that not even Captain Teague dared to meet the Raider face to face!"

At the mentioning of Teague's name, Elizabeth felt an uneasy sensation creeping up her spine. There had been something amiss in his behaviour at the council meeting two days ago. She'd yet to pin point it, but there was something almost guilty in his manner; he'd snuck off as though he'd something to hide.

To disguise her agitation, she stuck her hand in a large sack filled with dried ginger, scooped out a handful and drank in its scent. It helped to clear her head, and when she spoke again, her voice sounded even and conversational.

"Captain Teague is an old man, even if he refuses to believe it," she heard herself say, but she did not feel convinced by her own words. Teague might have been a man of advancing years and he certainly had his eccentricities, but he was by no means senile; he was as quick with his mind as he was with his pistol.

She pretended that his superstitious notions about the Raider were nothing but the result of his inability to see the obvious: the ghost was human. And as such he could be hunted and destroyed.

"I can hardly picture him chasing a man he believes to be a ghostly phantom." Nell prattled absent-mindedly as she scooped fresh almonds from their burlap bags into their new home in a small barrel located close to the shop door.

"But he trusts Will to do it!" Elizabeth murmured more to herself than her oblivious companion. Maybe that was his purpose. She knew Teague well enough to be perfectly aware that he mistrusted and even despised Will. Yet, he'd left his treasured ship to him and begrudgingly supported his cause. Perhaps it was driven by his loyalty and friendship for her, but he was still a pirate. Somewhere in the back of her troubled mind, she wondered whether his motivations had been as unselfish as they seemed.

"Will sailed on the _Captive Swallow_, didn't he? You must be terribly proud!" Nell continued unaffectedly and Elizabeth wasn't quite sure whether Nell expected her pride to be directed towards Will's bravery or that he'd been allowed use of the fearsome Captain Teague's ship.

In her desire to converse Nell had completely forgotten about the salt and was now sitting on the counter, eyeing Elizabeth expectantly. Sighing, the latter abandoned the ginger and said solemnly:

"All I want is his safe return." She'd spoken the words so often she found the words had lost their lustre in their continual repetition.

"Oh, he will!" With a confident smile, Nell reached for a jar filled with candy and chose a red one looking particularly bilious. "He returned after ten years as Captain of the Flying Dutchman, did he not?" Nell put the candy to her tongue and her lips smacked together as she appeared to appraise the candy's texture. Her head bobbed with approval of the sweet and she reached for another one.

"He was immortal, then. Mortality is a tenuous bond that is easily severed," Elizabeth stated as a matter of fact while she watched the younger woman savouring the saccharine taste of the bonbon, her legs dangling lazily from the counter and revealing the perfect shape of her slender ankles. She looked like God's gift to men, and despite her sullen mood, Elizabeth couldn't help but be a little amused at the thought of how much young Jimmy Meade, Nell's most ardent worshipper, would have paid to see her like that. Probably even more than he usually spent on the rock-hard wholemeal crackers he bought at least twice a day, just to gain the opportunity to gawk at her.

Nell was still busy contemplating the implications of immortality when the small bell placed above the door rang, announcing the entrance of a man who'd long ceased to trouble himself with a pretty turn of ankle.

Captain Teague was in a foul temper, and he fully intended to share his misery with those who did not comply with his disposition.

'Whack', 'whack', 'whack' the little shop rattled and quaked with awe-inspiring fear of his imposing presence.

He repeatedly rammed his walking stick down with such force Elizabeth feared the floor-planks might give way. The corners of his mouth were curled downward extending until they aligned with his moustache. His gruff tapping was apparently intended to be a "good morning" and he grunted a few syllables that sounded like a low growl originating from hell's innermost circle.

His charisma dominated the whole shop; Nell hurried to jump down from her seat on the counter, straightening her skirts and apron while she gave him a treacly smile that belied the death glare he had honoured her with. His hand twitched and for a split second, Elizabeth feared he might draw out his pistol. He seemed to change his mind rather quickly and pursued his attempt to kill the maddeningly cheerful girl with nothing more than the venom from his eyes.

"Good morning, Captain Teague," Elizabeth greeted politely, intent on ignoring his sour mood which was more likely than not the result of Will's departure this morning; no matter the reason he'd had for giving his ship to Will, he obviously regretted his decision.

"The usual," Teague mumbled into his beard in an attempt to hide that her pleasant demeanour had in fact, succeeded in brightening his mood. Elizabeth went to fetch his unchanging order. Religiously, he asked for the same pouch of peanuts and the twist of chewing tobacco twice a week ever since she'd opened her shop almost ten years ago.

Wordlessly, he slapped several coins against the counter, took the goods he had purchased and turned to leave without bidding the two women goodbye. Nell shot Elizabeth a questioning glance when the old pirate paused at the doorstep. He spun around with an agility that was impressive for a man his age. His hair surrounded his face like a lion's mane, a thick mass of black and grey, punctuated with gold and silver. Both women drew breath, expecting a scolding or a tremendously important announcement, but Teague's eyes focused solely on Elizabeth. His lined features softened until the last traces of anger and resentment had vanished into thin air.

"Hope you're in good spirits, lass," he mumbled gently, his eyes displaying genuine interest and compassion.

"Yes, don't worry about me," she smiled, moved by his concern. "I'll miss Will, but there are a few advantages of life with a rebellious ten-year old that requires persuasion to go to school every morning. There is little time to wallow in self-pity or fight something you cannot change." Teague nodded knowingly, his lips curling into a thin smile.

"I suppose that's the price to pay for the love of a knight in shining armour." On that surly note he left the two women to contemplate the confusion his wondrous comportment had created.

"He gets more peculiar every day," Nell observed nonchalantly after the door had closed behind him. Perplexed as to the intention of his parting statement, Elizabeth wholeheartedly agreed.


	4. Chapter 3

**A/N: **_Many thanks to everyone who read and reviewed this story so far :)_

_Feedback is always greatly appreciated and feeds our muse._

* * *

**Chapter 3 **

He clamored out the window like a spider, his lungs burning with the desire to be free, rid of the oppressive unhappiness of the house. Solitude of night beckoned to him, more so than the rough texture of his linen bed sheets. The roar of the raging sea matched the seething anger that beat within his caged heart. He slipped past the hanging cheery curtains, mustard yellow his mother's favorite color, and into the waiting, grand-fatherly arms of the great birch tree that had made its nest next to his window. He shimmied down the ancient limbs on his stomach, careless of the burn of the bark against his skin; leaves fell round him like hail and ash.

Midway down trunk of the tree he paused, disturbed by the sound of the night air, his finger tips clinging to a protruding knot in the trunk's smooth white skin. His legs dangled as he listened; there was a wailing moan, a stifled sob accompanied by the rattle of clanging bottles. Dangerous spirits lingered on the night air; he'd been told tales of a banshee who roamed the open cliffs of Shipwreck Island to claim the lives of wandering sailors. Mostly, he'd figured the stories were told to him by his mother to frighten him from stealing away on nights like tonight, when the moon was high and could light a clear path to his unclaimed adventures. The rattling continued, added to the whisper of wind that carried the sound to his observant ears. At any moment, his mother would come to the window, curious as to what had caused all the commotion.

Frightened that he might be seen dangling from the tree; Will released his grip on the bark and floated through the air, his shirt sleeves puffing with the wind like a white sail.

'Tuck your head to your chest, and roll along the ridges of your spine, ' he heard his father's voice command in his ear as he soared. Obediently, he followed the guidance, tucking his appendages into a tightly coiled ball as he rotated to land in the soft grass, clear of the uprooted legs of the tree. His spine made first contact with a heavy thud that jarred his level thinking and disrupted his father's imagined guidance.

Instantaneously, his arms and legs sprang free of his ball and with the momentum of his landing, young William revolved to his feet, a safe distance away from the house. Wincing, he twisted his neck and heard it pop. He hadn't quite mastered the technique as well as his father had, but with more practice, he'd soon be equally skilled. The joy of his easy escape was short lived; all at once the heaviness of his father's departure struck him, pushing his back to nestle against the safety of the tree.

His mind mulled the image permanently emblazoned in his brain; his father's stiff farewell at the docks still smarted. They had labored indecisively on the best method to bid each other adieu. Hesitation altered between the open arms of an embrace and the formality of a handshake. Young William had opted for the former, throwing his arms around his father's coat and pleading with him not to go. His father's hands had traced through his thick locks of lank, dark, hair and in his eyes, he thought he saw the remnants of regret.

Still, despite his desperate beseeching, the man he'd known as his father only in name and for a period of a few short months had turned to the sea, rushing off to live up to his legend as the great Captain and savior of piracy. His father, the legendary William Turner he'd known from infancy. His mother had never failed to tell him stories of his father; he'd climb onto her lap and beg her to tell the tales of the Dutchman over and over when he was younger. No longer—he wouldn't cling to the coat tails of a fable.

Hatred fueled his angry feet forward, down the sandy path; volcanic rocks and shells were no match for the tough soles that carried him down the steep terrain of the cliffs toward the beach. As he rounded a dark boulder which had cast a threatening shadow, the trail of sand which had been worn smooth with the heavy press of boots became blurred. Dampness touched his cheeks, and he realized it was not the mist of the salty sea air, or moisture from the heavy fog that lingered on the edge of the horizon, but tears. His fingers traced the wet rivulets that danced down his cheeks.

Irritated, William raked his hands through the sand, grasping at the pebbles that had chanced to take their rest on the beach. Clenching them tightly in his fist as though he wished to smother the life from them, he unleashed a strangled cry and tossed them as far as they could travel. A few of the smooth, round, stones had the good sense to skim the tumultuous waves before they sank to the bottom.

Valiantly he fought the tears, foolish, childish tears that ought never to have climbed into his eyes to reveal the tell-tale signs of his pain. One thing he knew with great certainty from observation of the men around him, the stories as well as his experiences with his own pirate mother—pirates never cried. If he was anything, he was his father and mother's son—he was unequivocally pirate!

In an effort to bolster his identity to his wavering psyche and the mocking crash of the sea, he progressed down the beach, tossing stones and shells as he went, his broken voice lifting to a tune that had ever soothed his heart.

"Yo ho, yo ho, a pirate's life for me…," he sang with a trembling voice, accompanied by the 'plunk' of a stone dropping into the stirring waters of the sea.

He recalled the day his mother had taught the song to him. They had been standing in their kitchen, she with her arm wrapped around a large clay bowl; they were making scones and she had been telling him a story about the adventures she had had when she was his age and living in England.

'London is an amazing sight to behold, thrice the size of Shipwreck City, with horses, carriages and bridges,' she'd told him as she'd handed him the bowl to stir the thick mixture. The remainder of the day, he'd spent imagining what it might be like to visit London with his parents in tow, though he'd found it difficult to create the image of his father based solely on his mother's descriptions of him.

"Drink up me hearties, yo ho. Yo ho, yo ho, a pirate's life for me…" He gave a great sniff, and with it, the last of his tears had vanished. Though he'd not remembered all the verses, for it had been some time since he'd resorted to singing it to bring up his spirits, it'd done the trick. The sign of weakness had disappeared and he strolled down the beach, skimming stones, every ounce of him a fearless and blood-thirsty pirate.

"We kidnap…we pillage…" He stopped short of tossing another stone as a wave crashed to the beach. In the wan hours of dawn's light, his eyes caught sight of movement on the beach, like the wave of the Jolly Roger in the wind. More than likely, it was the sail of wreckage from the ships that washed ashore. Not many ships could manage to navigate the Devil's Throat without dire consequences. Scanning the horizon with a frown, he started toward the wreckage, but his foot caught on a singular disturbance in the sand. He stumbled and nearly landed face first to the ground which was cast in a pinkish hue from the early rays of the sun's light. With a frown, he turned to glare at what had impeded his wake; footprints, a man's boot cast like marble in the wet sand. The surf broke upon the beach and rinsed the print away, soaking William to the skin with stinging salt water. Odd; there were few who'd risk a jaunt down the beach in the dark hours of the night, not with sharp rocks to lure a man to his peril. Only those intimately familiar with the terrain could steer a course safely.

Will whirled around, his damp locks slapping into his eyes as he came face to face with a pair of thick black boots, partially obscured by sand. Frightened, he cried out and began to scoot away from the scuffed foot-wear in an attempt to escape. A strong pair of hands lifted him kicking and screaming from his crouched position. One hand muffled his mouth, trapping his neck so that his gullet was sorely pressed by the weight of the man's wrist. He smelled of must, damp fabric combined with the stench of blood and repugnant stench of body odor.

"Ye like tales of cutthroat men and dastardly pirates?" Will stood petrified, the sting of a sharp knife pressed against his neck. If his muscles so much as twitched, even if it was in accordance to the sentiments of his attacker, his throat would be slit from ear to ear.

"Aye, I can see ye do. Walk with me, young master. I've a sight to make your eyes weep and your blood curdle." He had no choice but to follow the man's instruction; he struggled with his assailant, dragging his feet in the sand to slow their progress. The sand! He could use it to his advantage if he could only get a little on the edge of his shoe. Golden brown dusted his brass buckle tipped shoe and with athletic grace he kicked the sand up into his attacker's face.

"God's Blood!" His aggressor unleashed a string of foul oaths while his hands covered his stinging eyes. He relinquished his grip around Will's neck and with a gasping breath Will crawled on his hands and knees to his feet at a run.

"Stand where ye are ye gutless cur!" He heard the devilish click of a pistol. Will froze mid-stride and turned to face the man with a slight gulp of fear.

"My assurances I mean ye no harm…" The fearsome pirate lowered his pistol to match his words with his actions and appeared to steel himself as he spoke his next words. His voice came low, and William was hard pressed to hear it over the din of the deafening ocean.

"I only require a moment of your time…help in a small venture…" He cocked his head in the direction they had previously traveled.

Will stood indecisively on a precipice. He was tempted to run in the opposite direction for the safety of his mother's arms and cutlass, but the plaintive note of desperation in the man's voice stayed his feet. Nodding resolutely, Will took steps forward to where the man with a hobbling step had motioned. He had a few stones remaining in his pocket; if the man had taken the notion into his head to kill him, he would make use of all means of escape. Will kept one hand buried in his pocket, the stones warmed and at the ready by his small fingers.

Beached on the gravel was a longboat, obscured by darkness and in part by an inlet surrounded by rocks. Whoever the man was, he did not want to be seen by prying town eyes.

"If you mean to kidnap me, I'll warn you that my parents are formidable pirates. They'll not rest until your head is in a noose," William informed the man with what he supposed was an intimidating air. To his chagrin, his captor openly laughed with a throaty 'har, har'.

"That's a smart lad. Ye got a name, boy?" the grisly pirate quizzed as they made their way together around the obscuring rock. Will's name died on his lips as he beheld a curious sight.

The location of the rocks had been strategically chosen; a hideaway that concealed a lump in the shape of a man, who, as though cued by the approach of his friend, groaned and raved with a fierce yowl.

"T-T-Turner. My name is Will Turner," he squeaked as the groans of pain continued to a near frenzy before they subsided into the dull crash of the sea. Alarmed, Will took two gigantic steps backward and crashed headlong into the stomach of the other man.

"William Turner…," he pirate repeated, drawing out the vowels as though tasting the name for the first time. He lowered his great height to Will's level staring trustingly into the young boy's eyes.

"He's a dying man, Master Turner and as true a pirate as they come; as true as you and I. He needs the likes of a doctor, and I think ye would do well to make all haste to fetch your mother…"


	5. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4 **

He took the stone steps to their house two at a time; his trembling hands twisted the brass knob to their front door and he didn't pause to shut it as it swung wide on its hinges.

"Mum!" he exclaimed into the darkened household, not taking care to keep his voice low, sliding at a break neck pace as his feet skidded across the open wood paneling. He crashed head long into her writing desk, sending her delicate oak chair clattering to the floor, announcing his presence to his mother with a greater finesse than his previous tactics.

"William Turner!" Elizabeth exclaimed, staggering out of her room, her lids drooping, heavy with the former weight of sleep as she drank in the sight of him. Instantly, he rushed to her and took hold of her wrist.

"What on earth are you doing out of bed at this hour?" As she drew closer to greater wakefulness her observant eyes widened at the sight of his disturbed person, drenched with sea water and covered with sand.

"Why, you're soaking wet!" Her solicitous hands slid off his coat and a hint of irritation crept into her tone. He knew the lecture well; it always began in the same manner, a postlude to every adventure he'd gone on in the quiet hours of the night.

"How many times have I told you…"

Will shook his head and pulled his coat out of her grasp impatiently. It was well known amongst his school friends that William had a mother who was uncommonly precocious; the type of mother from whom any nicking of sweets from the pantry was instantly noticed, but William was sorely surprised that she'd not observed his obvious panic.

"There's no time for lectures." He pulled his damp coat back over his shoulders with a defiant air. Elizabeth's dark brows drew downward with severe displeasure.

"Down at the beach, there's a man and he's dying. We have to save him!" He grabbed her wrist again and started to pull her toward the door. Elizabeth dug her heels into the ground and tugged her wrist away. He was babbling nonsensically, but his distress made it impossible for him to speak with any coherence.

"No! I will not believe your lies again, young man. You've justified your adventures to the beaches too many times with wild stories and I refuse to believe you. I want you to march up stairs and go straight to bed. Tomorrow we will discuss, perhaps with the aide of Captain Teague, why it is you do not go down to the beaches in the middle of the night. Alone." He was risking the swipe of the birch for his insubordination, but he would not fail a fellow pirate. If the man was found dead on the beach, it would be his head…or worse, his neck. He swallowed as he recalled the sting of the pirate's blade against his neck.

"Please, you must believe me. Come with me down to the beach and see for yourself. He'll die if you don't and it will be my fault." The desperation in her son's voice caught Elizabeth's attention, and she waxed visibly between stern authority and melting to her son's wishes. Whatever he'd seen had him so worked up that it'd be impossible to coax him into sleep. It was better to put his mind at ease and consequently, she'd also put hers at rest in the process. Though she'd convinced herself she had been alone on the beach the previous morning, she'd felt the unsettled tingle of her spine of an unfriendly pair of eyes. Perhaps her son's ravings were not as contrived as they had initially seemed. More than likely, it was one of the town drunks who'd meant to stumble home from the tavern but had staggered to sleep on the beach instead.

"I can't believe I'm about to follow yet another implausible falsehood…" Elizabeth sighed as she turned to put on decent attire; she was hastily intercepted by William who blocked her path on the stairs.

"No time! No time! Come on!" He pulled on the edge of her night gown, yanked her shawl off the coat rack and drug her unwilling feet in the direction of the beach.

"If you've made this all up, and I'm caught wandering the beach in my night gown by any one more dignified than a sea gull, there'll be no supper for you for a week."

* * *

The wind gnawed at her bare ankles with a chilling bite; sand whipped around them, shooting into their eyes and making passage down the cliffs nearly impossible in some places. William trudged ahead of her, braving all wind and sand in his dedication to his goal. His determination reminded her of his father; when they had a large undertaking, father and son devoted their whole soul to it without question. It was his loyalty to prove his words true that had put her ill-at-ease. What if her son was right and there was a man lying on the beach? He could be a vagabond lying in wait to overpower helpless females… . Elizabeth smiled at the incongruence of her thoughts. There were few who might deem her helpless; she had soul as pointed as the blade that lay hidden in her boot. If they were to be ambushed, she was prepared..

"There, he's lying behind the rock," Will informed her as the wind beat against the cliffs above them, causing them to howl. Elizabeth's skepticism dripped from her face; she'd yet to discover where he'd learned the habit of lying. Certainly, it was a trait not shared with his father; of late she'd also hardly indulged in front of him.

"Oh William," she sighed, looking down at what appeared to be a ratty sheet from the mast of a ship.

"These stories must stop…" To emphasize that she had gotten his guff, she took her booted foot and nudged the sheet with her toe. The sheet shivered and moaned; her foot collided with something solid and un-sheet like. Startled, Elizabeth leapt back, pulling William behind her to protect him.

"My word, you actually were telling the truth…" She breathed as she nervously pulled the knife from her boot. As she rose with it clutched in her hand, the wind picked up with a furious gust, blowing the protective sheet away from the groaning man. Sand stung her face; her night gown flattened against her thin legs and her hair wrapped around her neck like a scarf. She took a cautious step forward; the man lay flat on his stomach, his face obscured by his hair.

He had the hair and beard of a wild man; curls twisted about his face. Another step; the smell of his body was overpowering and rancid. Her nostrils were permeated by the fetid stench of rum combined with another odor she recognized but could not bring herself to name.

William approached the man from the opposite side and had knelt by his shoulder to roll him over.

"Stay back," Elizabeth commanded fiercely and with such power that William started at the harshness of the tone. He'd heard tell that she was an awe inspiring Captain, but he'd never thought the stories were true. Tonight, he became a believer. His body followed her command, startled by the quickness in which she moved.

"Hold this and do not drop it." Elizabeth pressed his father's knife into William's small trembling hands. His eyes were wide with fear and sensing his discomfiture, Elizabeth pressed a tender hand to his frozen cheek.

"If he moves, I want you to drop the knife and run as fast and as hard as you can. I'll be right behind you…," she whispered as the tenderness drifted from her features to be replaced by dread at words they both knew were not true. He would never run and leave her at the mercy of an attacker, nor would she be right behind him. His mother was far too courageous of a woman to ever run from a fight.

Turning slowly, she moved with cat-like agility to the man's resting form. The body quivered as though shivering from the cold and the absence of the sheet. With an ungentle hand, she gripped his shoulder and with Herculean strength she rolled him over onto his back.

The stench of dried blood nearly knocked her off her feet; dawn's early light revealed a sheet drenched in crimson. Elizabeth staggered backward, pressing the sleeve of her gown to her nose to prevent her stomach from retching. It was the sickening perfume of death—the man unleashed another pain filled groan. The pitiful sound softened Elizabeth's heart as she crouched next to his head.

"Sailor, can you hear me?" Elizabeth's voice rang high in the wind, a relic of the imperious tone she used to command servants as a child in London. He grumbled a response that sounded like a combination of a variety of languages, interspersed with English responses.

"Did he say tea party?" William asked with disbelief; his mother showed signs of visible relief. That wasn't all that the man's colorful ravings had revealed, but William seemed to have not absorb the new vocabulary.

"I can't understand him," Elizabeth huffed in determination as she scooted herself closer to the body. Leaning precariously over the trunk of the man's body, she pulled aside the singed fragments of his coat with her finger and thumb.

"He's been shot," she determined; in the weak light, she could see the aftermath of a ravenous infection. The wound was festering, overflowing with puss and crusted, dried blood that seeped with every labored rise and fall of his chest.

He mumbled something coherent, a weak cry that was almost a plea. Anxiously, Elizabeth shifted her attention from the severity of his wound to the words he hardly had the strength to speak.

"Perhaps if we…" Elizabeth used her fingers to trace away the wild strands of hair away from his face. The fingers paused, trembled as she took up a strand of hair, adorned with three familiar, colorful beads; trinkets of a life long banished to the recesses of memory.

"It's not possible…," she breathed, shaking her head as though to deny the possibility. Her throat suppressed a cry of anguish and panic as her hands made quick work of clearing away the remaining strands of matted hair.

"Jack Sparrow," Elizabeth gasped in wonder, believing him temporarily to be a mirage, except that his person had always been unmistakably solid.

"Captain…," he wheezed; his languid, pain-filled eyes rolled into the back of his head as his hands lifted, trembling with infirmity. He unleashed another groan as a fevered chill wracked his sunken frame. Elizabeth froze indecisively at the sounds of his suffering. She'd heard those cries before, from dying men in battle as they lay with their bodies scorched from cannon fire. The burden of leadership had fallen easily on her shoulders and spouting orders had been second nature to her—but moments like these left her a hapless wretch uncertain of what course to chart. It panicked her to think of him dying on a beach without a soul in the world to tend to his torment.

"Mum …," William called softly, calling her attention to the fresh blood that had sprung forth from an open sore around the wound. He looked to her with the beseeching eyes of a child.

"We will move him to our home, but you and I aren't strong enough to take him. Run as fast you can to wake Mr. and Mrs. Heung. Tell them that there is an injured man in need of assistance and that he'll need to be moved from the beach. Lead them back here—tell them to bring clean cloth and two bottles of rum!" Will took off running but stopped at the rock. Elizabeth feared that he would refuse to leave her alone in a protective streak that mimicked his father.

"Why two bottles?" he quizzed with a perplexed expression. Elizabeth fixed him with a warning stare and he set off running down the beach, as fast as his legs would take him. Two bottles, one and a half to numb Jack's pain and half to numb her petrified heart. She watched as Will became a distant spec on the expansive beach before she turned her attentions to Jack.

"Of all the foolhardy things to do; what business do you have in getting shot?" Elizabeth scolded him crossly, as she pushed his hands away to make a more thorough examination of the wound.

"Are we, by any chance, in the Locker?" Jack inquired politely, as though they were attending a ludicrous garden party and sipping steaming tea. Elizabeth struggled to follow the workings of his delirious mind, but chose to humor him in order to keep him from slipping into unconsciousness.

"No, of course not. Don't be absurd…," Elizabeth lengthened a tear in his billowing dingy white shirt and the disturbance of the wound caused him to seize her wrist with a hearty grip.

"Then I'm most assuredly in hell … . How fitting that you be here to join me…" He seemed so utterly bemused by his raving madness that Elizabeth could not be insulted by his insinuation that she might join him in the fiery pit.

"Do you remember who I am, Jack?" Elizabeth questioned, wondering whether or not in his ten year absence he'd forgotten her entirely. Even without the malaise of illness, she could see the toll the years had taken on his face. Though he was still youthful in appearance, she saw the lines of age and hard living littered around his eyes and mouth. Though she knew many had threatened to send Jack Sparrow to the depths, she had a difficult time imagining the manner of man who'd managed to best him. Jack eluded death with all the practiced skill of a cat.

For the first time in their conversation, his eyes focused on her face and he appeared to give it a great deal of study, his brows puckered with thought. She felt a shred of disappointment; his mind, the greatest part of the man, was slipping away and when it finally went there would be nothing left of him save for an empty shell.

All at once, his eyes lit with gentle recognition and he nearly sat straight up in his excitement. Elizabeth put her hands on his shoulders to hold him down so that he did not aggravate the wound any further. Her touch caused him to flinch, but he settled against the sheet, gazing at her with fevered eyes, his mouth opening and closing like fish frantically gaping for its final burst of fresh air. He mumbled an incoherent phrase; Elizabeth heard the crunching foot falls of boots against the crusty wet sand. Help had arrived at last! Jack's lids fluttered, though he fought them as he struggled to make one final word.

"Pirate…" His lips twisted into a strange relieved smile, as though he was grateful for the chance to utter the word before he slipped away into darkness.


	6. Chapter 5

_A/N: Thanks a lot for reading and reviewing, everyone :) We greatly appreciate your feedback!_

* * *

**Chapter 5**

Elizabeth sat riveted to Jack's still frame, unable to tear her eyes away. Her ears registered sounds, but she did not recognize their origins. She willed Jack with every ounce of her soul to take another breath, no matter how shallow. Anxious, precious seconds of life ticked by, his chest did not rise until, all at once he gave a great sputtering cough.

"Elizabeth?" A female voice, low and dulcet interrupted her silent vigil. She recognized the long, aggressive strides of the midwife, Kate Heung, as she led the team of rescuers around the jutting rocks. Startled, Elizabeth tore her eyes away to greet familiar faces as breathless and bewildered men filed around the rocks. Last to approach was her former first mate Tai Heung, who brought up the rear of the caravan with his fingers tightly wound around the hilt of his sword. He expected an attack; she knew the grim expressions of her first mate's scarred face to infer his discomfort.

"Your son didn't give me much to go on--said that the man was dying on the beach!" Kate Heung's firm voice called her back to her senses. Relief eased into the tightness of Elizabeth's cheeks and jaw. Kate Heung was a skilled midwife and an artisan in her craft. If there was any one capable of healing Jack's wounds, it was Kate.

"Yes, the man has been shot. The wound is infected from what I can tell, but I'm no doctor. He's been between worlds, but he's still alive," Elizabeth informed the older woman, who had swept off her cloak with an official air and had handed it to her husband without missing a step.

"Where is William?" Elizabeth questioned tensely, not wishing for him to be out of her sight. There was a stir among the men Tai Heung had brought with him from his restaurant and to her relief; William's curious face appeared between his two body guards.

"Blimey, that's a lot of blood," he whispered in awe, seeing the blood drenched sheet in the full light of the dawn's early rays for the first time. Kate shifted to Jack's shoulder and leaned over his chest to scrutinize the wound.

"Bright boy you have. He's weak from the blood loss. The wound…," Kate raised her finger and without a flinch dug her finger into the tender, inflamed flesh that encircled the gaping hole.

"Is very deep…" She clicked her tongue at the shameful state the man was in. He'd been wounded at least three days prior, and it had been left to fester. From what she'd seen, someone had made a half-hearted attempt to remove the shot, but had only engendered a wound that ran deeper into the tissue. Kate continued to examine, muttering to herself as she took stock of the wound from all corners. The clinical prodding of her fingers elicited a response from Jack in the form of a wail.

"So he is alive; I was beginning to wonder if our trip was wasted..." The midwife's chuckle was shared by none; those members of the troop who hadn't recoiled for fear from his cry were repulsed by the gallows humor.

"Wouldn't it be better to get him to warmer quarters?" Elizabeth suggested as she studied Kate's dour expression. Her pert mouth became a thin grim line as she determined the best course of action. The man was closer to the realm of death than the land of the living; it was better to leave him on the beach to a peaceful expiration amongst the solid rocks and the gush of the sea.

Kate hesitated averting her gaze from Elizabeth's beseeching eyes, wide and dark with fear for the man's life. The man's wound was severe and she admittedly lacked the expertise to remove the deeply seeded shot.

"Surely you of all people can help him," Elizabeth countered shrilly to the very pregnant pause that answered her question. Hesitantly, Kate turned her gaze to her husband's face, searching the lines and scars for the answers she sought.

Sensing her eyes, he turned his gaze away from the sea and scoured the dying man for the first time. His cheek muscles twitched, imperceptibly; the scars that lined his face from a childhood injury tensed. He was a stoic man who managed to keep his sentiments a mystery to those around him and sometimes, even himself. Only the fluttering of his lids and the parting of his lips directed her attention. Tai's eyes registered astonishment as he looked between his kneeling Captain and the man who lay prostrate on the ground. _Aha!_ Kate's sharp eyes missed nothing of her husband's changing expressions. He knew the man; Tai's eyes drifted from his wife's face to the grief stricken Captain, who stood between them with her shoulders poised for defeat.

"You know him?" Kate questioned her husband and Elizabeth. Both started, taken unawares by her observations of their telling behaviors. She was met with a staunch stare of silence from Elizabeth; Tai was more forthcoming.

"This man is Jack Sparrow. We fought with him in the battle; it was through his honor that we stand here today. His father would mourn his loss." Her husband's voice was soft, and even though the tone was gentle, there was a dash of misgivings that included his glances to Elizabeth Turner.

"His father is…," she heard Elizabeth start to explain, but Kate was quick to interrupt her.

"Captain Teague, I've heard the name Jack Sparrow before." Her decision was made, seemingly without her. Tai wished to help the man, but whether it was out of loyalty to his Captain, or respect to Jack Sparrow remained to be seen. The tales she had heard of the infamous Captain Jack Sparrow painted a more fantastical, if not more sordid portrait of the man.

"Wrap him up in the sheet. Take care not to jar him. If any more blood seeps from his lungs we'll have a right pretty mess beyond the dead body." Tai motioned to the three men who had stood as silent soldiers at his side. They were his most trusted troops, they'd ensured his survival in every battle; they were the men to bring him into Shipwreck Cove and into her life in the same method they intended to remove Jack Sparrow from the beach. Chinese phrases were uttered; an improvised stretcher was created from fragments, beams, planks and bits of rope were lashed together.

With a grunt, the four men shouldered their burden, their faces scrunched with the determination to ferry the dead man to a chance for life.

"There must be some hope then, if you are willing to move him?" Elizabeth questioned, her expression brightening with child-like naivety. Kate shook her head; a surge of bitterness and a hint of contempt for a woman who had much still to learn about the subtleties of death.

"The man is already dead. I thought it more merciful to allow him dignity in his demise and a warm bed in which to breathe his final breath. There is nothing for me to do but to ease his great agony." Kate's wrist was seized by Elizabeth; she was spun around to face her husband's Captain, whose youthful skin had dissolved to the color of ash.

"Tell me there is some small hope, I beg you." She pleaded in earnest, a low whisper that trembled at the wind's disturbance. Kate's feet had ever been planted in the realm of truth; she never lied to her patients or those that surrounded their bedsides.

"There is but one hope, and it lies in the stuttering hands of our esteemed surgeon, Billy the Butcher…" Kate's displeasure and obvious disdain for the man seeped from the dull, monotone calm of her voice.

"I will make all haste to fetch him and we can only pray that as it is early still, he will only be partially inebriated. I will take your son with me…" Elizabeth frowned at the thought of Will chasing after a wayward and drunken surgeon.

"For your protection?" Elizabeth countered suspiciously, not relishing the thought of her impressionable boy being dragged into the seedier taverns of the city.

"No. I intend to drop him to stay with Nell Maloney before I fetch Billy. No use in introducing your son to all manner of vice and sin in the course of one evening. Surgery is not for the faint hearted, and is most certainly not for the lad to see…" Eager to stay with her charge, Kate ran down the beach with long strides after the men carrying the stretcher.

"Take him to Mrs. Turner's house, men. Careful there; you're causing him pain…," the voice disappeared amongst the rocks; Elizabeth stood alone on the beach, staring after the retreating stretcher and soldering men. To her eyes, it appeared they were pall bearers carrying a despicably make-shift coffin.

"Billy the Butcher…then there is not the slightest chance of hope." Her resignation alarmed her; it was inevitable that they should always part on enigmatic terms—'pirate' was ever his final, mocking salutation.

Something small slipped into her hand, and Elizabeth tore her eyes away from the retreating rescue party to gaze around her. William, who had observed the scene but had spoken not a single syllable, had slipped a consolatory gift into her hand.

"There was only one bottle. I saved it for you," Will murmured with a grim half-smile and with eyes that loved and accepted her mysterious behavior with unblinking fealty. Elizabeth lifted the blown glass bottle of rum to her tired eyes for closer study. Her free hand grappled for his and if it were not too great a show of emotion, she would have kissed it over and over in her gratitude. In his youthful spirit she drew the courage she found she lacked; there was still hope if there was but one fool left to fight for it.

"Master Turner," Kate's rich voice summoned; she'd paused at a distant rock to wait for him to follow. Elizabeth felt the warmth of his hand slip from hers and with a gust of wind he was gone, leaving her to stand alone and it almost seemed the breaking of the waves had taken on its old-familiar sound again: A faint echo of goodbye.


	7. Chapter 6

_A/N: Thanks so much for reading, reviewing and adding this story to your alerts/favorites list. We greatly appreciate your feedback :) _

* * *

**Chapter 6 **

Billy, the town's only and therefore most frequented surgeon had come into world as one, Fitzwilliam Everett Tavistock. When he was of age he entered the Royal Navy to attend to one of the king's most esteemed admirals and his crew. To everyone's great dismay, he cared more for his own insatiable thirst for all manner of liquor than for the brave men's physical health. One day, during a pirate raid, the crew decided to heighten their chances for survival of future injuries by trading him to their attackers. The medic soon found that pirates not only appreciated his maverick methods, but that their rum supplies outstripped that of the Royal Navy in considerable quantity. He settled into his new life without regrets or reservations.

After 35 blood and rum-soaked years at sea, he took up residence at Shipwreck City, the reputation he'd won preceding his arrival earning him the bloody moniker: Billy the Butcher. Aside from his disreputable celebrity, Kate's objections to Billy extended beyond his character; not only did she despise his crudity, she doubted his qualities as a surgeon were as developed as his marked preference for torture and infliction of pain. In this instance, however, they didn't have much choice. The man William had found on the beach had been shot in the chest two days ago, and from what she'd seen of it, they would need to extract the bullet and cut away the infected flesh. Kate prided herself that her knowledge exceeded that of an ordinary midwife. A surgery of this calibre, however, required not only experience, but equipment.

After she'd delivered William at the doorstep of Nell and her brother Sean, she headed straight for the _Seasick Siren_, the filthiest tavern in all of Shipwreck City. Billy could without exception be found until the sun came to a peak, playing cards, brawling and, most importantly, drinking until the barkeep had his motionless body thrown out into the gutter; Kate sincerely hoped that today was an exception.

When she entered the tavern, all eyes that were not yet closed in blissful delirium turned to her. A reputable woman in the _Seasick Siren_ was a sight to behold, but Kate ignored the uproar she caused. A man's life hung in the balance and if it meant the sacrifice of her fragile reputation, she'd take the risk.

Her quarry was situated at a round table in the corner where he was busily trying to gain a glimpse at his neighbour's cards, in an attempt to drop the ace he'd been hiding up his sleeve.

Billy was a stout, bald-headed man who might have been termed mousey, if it were not for his habit of dressing to the nines as though he was still serving the king's admiral. His appearance might have been dubbed shabby, but the few dangling buttons left on his coat were brightly polished and the frills of his shirt were the whitest in all of Shipwreck City.

"Billy," Kate called out to him, her voice firmly demanding. "Your services are needed."

Glassy, expressionless eyes scorned the sight of her but were grateful for the interruption that might distract his companions from the escaped ace.

"Well, look who it ain't! Everyone's favourite witch!" he slurred mockingly, but Kate would have none of it. Arms akimbo, she glared at him, pointedly ignoring his verbal slander.

"They found a man, down at the beach. He's been shot in the chest."

"What's it to me?" he asked, impatient to continue the game since it seemed no one had witnessed his blatant cheating.

"It seems rum has dulled your ears and your wits; you're a surgeon, in case you've forgotten." Kate's voice, saturated with sarcasm, brought forth the confidence of having lost the battle, but not the war.

"Correct," he retorted sharply, obviously taking umbrage at her thinly veiled insult. For an unprincipled and ill-tempered man, there could be nothing worse than exposure to ridicule. Particularly at the hands of a cantankerous midwife who didn't seem to be aware of her place in the world. He loathed her; the detestation of her person visible in every fibre of his being. His thin lips shook below his enormous moustache as he continued:

"I'm a surgeon, not the community welfare association. I offer my competent services against adequate payment, and I doubt that piece of semi-human jetsam of which you speak is in possession of anything more valuable than the lead shot in his lowly flesh."

Kate's lips curled into a sly smile. She'd been expecting his abominable response and at last she played the trump card she'd secreted in her sleeve.

"This 'piece of semi-human jetsam', as you so eloquently chose to call him -," she spoke loudly so that every wandering ear in the tavern might hear, "- is Captain Teague's son."

The _Seasick Siren_ fell silent; an empty tankard dropped to the ground as the pirates in the room gave a collective gasp. Billy stared sullenly at the table, his cards spilt in front of him; the damn, cunning witch had pulled an unbeatable ace. There was nary a man in town foolish enough to refuse Captain Teague any favour. Dejected, he collected his black medic's bag and blacker heart.

* * *

When Elizabeth returned to the kitchen, her nightgown replaced with a grey blouse and brown skirt, Jack continued to lay motionless on the table he'd been placed upon, head dropped to the side as if only loosely connected to his maltreated body. Against the white linen sheet, he looked like a heap of rags, crusted with dirt and dried blood; the aroma was nauseating.

Tai and his companions leaned against the window sill, chatting quietly. Elizabeth fought the red-hot anger welling up inside her painfully clenched stomach at the sight of their obvious indifference towards the suffering man.

Tai sensed her incense and caught her eye. When she opened her mouth to speak, a sharp rebuke leaping to her lips, he put a finger to his. He approached her, tilting his head towards hers until she could feel his warm breath against her ear.

"Sssshhh, Captain Turner," he whispered, "Captain Sparrow is very ill. Loud talking and touching?" He stepped back and shook his head. "No good. Makes him thrash and scream."

Though it was unlikely that his men had understood a word of what Tai had told her, they nodded in acquiescence when Elizabeth looked their way over his shoulder. It was obvious they had been discussing her, and more likely than not, Tai had related to them how her story intertwined with Jack Sparrow's. Briefly, she wondered how much her First Mate had been able to gather from what he'd witnessed in the past, but quickly brushed the uncomfortable thought aside.

Conscious of Tai's watchful gaze, she circled the table to gain a glimpse of Jack's face, needing to know whether it was fixed in a wild grimace, contorted from pain and lingering madness, or if his tortured body had finally taken mercy on his suffering mind and slipped into unconsciousness. Her steps were measured; calm like her breathing, displaying an inner strength and self-control she didn't feel but knew was necessary to keep the impending hysteria at bay. The events that had so mercilessly stolen her childhood away had also taught her how to detach her thoughts and actions from the battling emotions inside her soul. To observe her deeds from afar like a stranger while the hollow shell of her body did whatever was necessary.

Jack's return pulled a multitude of strings inside her heart, had touched places thought long forgotten or carefully erased from the charted map of her life. She wouldn't allow herself to process them yet.

She trusted in her mind's ability to endure the agony and madness. Her mind was her strongest ally in the constant mêlée between all things rational and emotional until she forced herself to face him. Every oppressed fear, squelched to the bottom of her heart broke through the barriers and before her mind could regain rule over its dominion; her hand flew to her mouth to muffle the impending scream of horror and panic.

Jack was still breathing, rasping, inarticulate gasps escaping his slightly parted lips, but his eyes were those of a dead man--fathomless depths as wide as the sea as if his spirit had already left him. Unable to bear the sight, Elizabeth wanted to run away, put as much distance between herself and the lifeless impersonator wearing Jack Sparrow's features, but her limbs disobeyed her commands. Her paralyzed mind was whirling with images and feelings, pulling her down into a maelstrom of memories.

_A face towered above her, dripping wet with outlandish ferocity, yet displaying earnest concern for a nameless young woman …; obsidian eyes shimmered in the firelight with tiny golden sparks, speaking of dreams lost and unfulfilled while a drunken voice defined freedom, an indistinct longing for something that could not be gained …; absolution painted across softened features while a man sentenced to death celebrated victory over his murderer …_

Jack Sparrow had been a man of many faces, more than anyone had ever been allowed to see, but the one her eyes sat fixed upon couldn't possibly be his. The Jack she'd known years ago might have been a liar and a cheat, a pirate through and through, but despite his lack of honour and decency, he'd never lacked life. The man before her was already dead.

Elizabeth was overcome by the sudden urge to grab his shoulders and shake him hard. She wanted to hear him scream, wail, cry … anything but his current display of inanimate indifference. Shifting towards his motionless body, she reached out to touch him, but a warm hand rested upon her shoulder, pulling her back into reality.

She spun around and faced Tai, his unvarnished pity and sadness darkened his scarred features.

"Let him die," he murmured quietly, his chin pointing towards Jack's ashen-face, which appeared as if life seeped from his veins. She had seen more than one man die, knew death's messengers when she encountered them, but in this particular instance her heart informed her that Tai was wrong. She refused to let him be right!

"No one dies on my kitchen-table." With a warrior's air, she shook off the man's hand. No longer immobilized by shock and helpless fear, her soul was renewed with courage and fighting spirit. Every bit as threatening and powerful as the incomparable Captain Teague, Tai couldn't help but see Elizabeth as he'd seen her on the day she'd led them all into battle. Undoubtedly, she was a queen from her golden locks to the hem of her skirts, prepared to fight for a life she'd already resurrected from the depths once, and Tai wondered if maybe there was more to her resistance than met the eye. He made a mental note to ask his wife about it; weren't women supposed to understand these things?

In an attempt to escape her defiant gaze, he turned back to Jack Sparrow– and started. "Look!" he whispered to Elizabeth, and when she spun around, she immediately recognized the flickering lids and quivering lips; the injured man was desperate to respond to her impassioned words, but she would have none of it.

Pressing her lips together, she hissed with some venom in her voice: "That especially goes for you!"

Tai and his men saluted her, their bodies rapt at attention; a trained response to their time when they'd served beneath her ferocious command.

"Gentleman." She fixed each man with a piercing, terrifying gaze. "At ease."

* * *

Elizabeth continued to glower at Jack, daring him to perish under her watch with a look so threatening even a stronger man would have been brought to his knees by it. The door flew open and Kate Heung strode into the room, closely followed by Billy the Butcher. He wore an apron that was not nearly as white as the frills of his shirt, but littered with dark stains that looked suspiciously like blood. At the sight of Billy, the room took an instinctive step back, and even Jack shifted uncomfortably on the table, groaning at the pain even the tiniest movement seemed to cause him.

In a protective gesture, Elizabeth stood behind his head and put her hands lightly on his shoulders, careful not to cause him any more discomfort, while she gazed questioningly at the intruders. Kate seemed irritated by Billy's tiring presence, and admittedly his filthy grin and boasting attitude didn't inspire much confidence in his abilities. Why was it, she wondered, that their last hope always made it seem as if there was no hope left to be had?

"Where's the patient?" Billy thundered; the absurdity of his question, considering that Jack was lying undeniably on the table in front of him, seemed to be part of a well-studied performance, as was the straightening of his filthy apron and the theatrical unpacking of the black bag containing his instruments.

"He's got a bullet in his chest," Kate reminded him, obviously not trusting him to find out himself, but Billy ignored her completely. Perverted pleasure glittered in his watery eyes; he leaned over Jack, only to recoil immediately with a screwed up expression of disgust. "You've fetched me to perform surgery on a corpse!" he coughed, pulling out a soiled handkerchief and pressing it to his nose in a manner that barely enabled him to breathe. "This man is already dead."

"I'm not a surgeon and even I can see he is still breathing!" Elizabeth snapped, feeling her temper rise again. Her grip on Jack's shoulders tightened involuntarily and he winced. A cruel smile crept like a spider to Billy's lips still concealed beneath the handkerchief. Perhaps there was still some sport to be had, after all!

Covering his mouth and nostrils, he leaned over his defenceless victim with renewed vigour; Elizabeth thought she saw Jack's eyes growing wide with fear. She wasn't convinced he knew Billy, but the stories alone would have sufficed to make every man still in control of his limbs to run for his life at the sight of the infamous medic. Of course, fighting to run away, one of the oldest and most honoured pirate-tradition, was out of the question for Jack. She felt something inside her break when she realized he was at least vaguely aware of what was happening to him, even though he was already too far gone to express any other sentiment than mortal agony.

Billy gestured with his free hand above the wound; signalizing to Kate to rip away more of Jack's shirt so that he wouldn't have to put down his handkerchief. Elizabeth held her breath and put a hand to Jack's heated cheek. Whatever was to come, it would hardly ease the pain that was blazing in his eyes and straight into her very soul. She had to force her mind from his gaze while her thumb stroked over his cheekbones, reassuring him she wouldn't abandon him when Billy the Butcher finally did his name justice.

Contempt for Billy written across her face, Kate stepped forward and tore Jack's shirt open until his chest was fully exposed. In the lamplight, the wound was even more repulsive than it had been in the protective darkness of the beach; even the midwife, who had seen more than most civilians, seemed momentarily shocked by the gruesome sight. Tai, who was looking over his wife's shoulder, grew remarkably pale and hurried to join his companions at the window.

Billy was not put off in the least by the festering wound surrounded by what looked like rotten flesh. Dark crimson slowly turning black, a colour already obtained by the dried blood covering the patient's skin, reached almost down to his stomach. With gleeful fascination, he observed the injury; Elizabeth half-expected him to shove his fingers in the wound as Kate had done before. Only Billy's would do so with less deliberation and with the outright intention to make Jack wail like an abandoned seal.

Fortunately, he refrained and stood to drink in the macabre picture before him, gulping it down like a cup of particularly fine grog. His eyes wandered over the bruised body, registered the faded scars criss-crossing Jack's sides and the dark shade of an oddly shaped tattoo right above his hipbone.

Billy's eyes paused and his breath stopped as his eyes focused on the two circular scars below his collarbone. Bullet scars, without a doubt.

"Extraordinary," he mumbled to himself, and though the dirty rag pressed to his face had muffled his words, his over-wrought amazement at the sight reverberated through the thick cloth. He bent forward until his nose almost touched Jack's stomach and he regarded the darkened circles from all angles, completely lost in the beauty of something only he, a master of art amongst philistines, seemed to be capable of appreciating.

"Well, what have you found?" Kate inquired impatiently, the irritable tapping of her foot on the floor unnerving his delicate ear. With a histrionic sigh, he straightened himself and took measured steps away from the repellent stench of the injured man before he pulled the handkerchief from his face.

"Ladies and Gentlemen," he announced pompously, "this is a truly remarkable case. Captain Sparrow-" He gestured to Jack's body as though he was lecturing a group of eager pupils. "-has apparently survived two shots to his chest, which, even in my own wealth of experience, is unique." He paused and surveyed his enraptured, captive audience with a triumphant smile on his lips.

The Turner-woman seemed unusually taken aback by the dying man's fate, which made the proclamation of his diagnosis even more enjoyable. He examined her taunt, pale features and bared his teeth like a wolf prepared for the slaughter of lamb before he continued. "Regrettably, he won't survive a third. He's as good as dead. My professional opinion is that you end his agony by blowing out his brains."

The barbarous cruelty displayed by the surgeon's words pulled over them like a suffocating blanket, and Billy revelled in their helpless, desperate ire. With a last, thoroughly pleased glance at Jack who now lay with his eyes closed, he picked up his unneeded tools and was about to place them back into his bag when he heard an all too familiar clicking sound alarmingly close to his ear.

"By my reckoning, you were speaking of YOUR brains," a female voice spat. "It won't end HIS agony, but it may very well end mine. In the very least, it is my professional opinion that it may rid me of your unendurable codswallop!"

Billy swallowed so hard he feared his Adam's apple might protrude from his gorge; this was not going according to his plan, and he would be damned if it wasn't that bloody woman interfering with his affairs. From the corner of his eye, he saw it was indeed Elizabeth who held the intimidating pistol to his temple.

He had savoured the desperation unfolding around him too thoroughly; she had used his moment of blissful abstraction to open a drawer on the underside of the table and pull out a firearm that seemed far too large for her dainty hands. Her visage evoked images of a lioness defending her cub and a faint suspicion crossed his mind, the connecting piece that seemed to explain everything, but before he could put his finger on it, he caught another click. He felt the cool metal of a second weapon press itself forcefully to his temple. "This man," Tai Heung said fiercely, "saved my life. And you will save his." He paused, irony touching his lips as he added an insincere attempt of civility:

"Please."

Billy's eyes travelled the room, frantically searching for the tiniest trace of compassion in the faces of those present, but he found only loathing and fierce determination. There was no one in the room that wouldn't object to either the Turner-woman or the Chinaman doing something that might cost him his life. Circumstances were grim, he realized, and if he ever wanted to see his beloved grog again, he would have to waste his precious time to tamper with a hopeless case.

Accompanied by an irritated groan, he lifted his hands in defeat and announced his capitulation. "Alright, alright. I'll try, but …," he began, intending to inform them beforehand that he'd not take the blame when the man died, but his saucy impudence rewarded him with the intensified pressure of two gun barrels against his temples.

"There's no 'but'!" Elizabeth hissed dangerously close to his ear, and there could be no doubt she meant it. "Save his life, or you lose yours."

"Alright. I'll do it," he finally gave in, seeing that further discussions would get him nowhere, least of all back to his favourite place at the _Seasick Siren_'s gaming table.

"But I cannot do this alone. His only chance of survival stems from the extraction of the bullet." Faced with the sad reality that he would actually have to perform surgery on the poor devil, he shot another glance at Jack, in an attempt to assess the situation.

"He's quite a linnet, if you ask me, but I've seen men developing almost supernatural powers when in this kind of pain … I really can't imagine what it must be like for him. Excruciating, agonizing … pure torture." He found himself shivering with anticipation at the sound of his words. He was about to continue his elucidation on the pain Jack would most likely encounter during the surgery when the same annoying voice interrupted him again: "Yes, yes … so what do you need us to do?"

"Us? Us as in 'us', including you?" he exclaimed, momentarily oblivious of his previously precarious position. Elizabeth was quick to remind him that by no means was he permitted to mock her –the renewed clicking of her pistol was more effective than a punch to his already disfigured nose.

"I need at least three men to hold him down, a bowl with hot water, towels – oh, and two bottles of rum. One for him and one for…medicinal purposes."


	8. Chapter 7

**Chapter 7 **

Elizabeth had never thought of death as the final rumble of timpani in a grand symphony, not a great culmination the masses anticipated. Rather, she thought of it as an undignified ending to a tedious journey, an arduous adventure which had been so perilously close to finishing Jack that seeing him alive after almost two hours of nerve-racking torment seemed inconclusive and out of place.

Billy hadn't just performed surgery; he had conducted an orchestra, his baton a collection of sharply pointed instruments with finely serrated teeth, his musical score a multitude of alien symbols written in stark crimson—the dissonant anguished screams his direction created were of such pain that the end of the unfinished symphony ought to have been a silent funeral march in an appropriately mournful key. And yet, by some miracle, Jack was breathing; shallow, rattling gasps from his chapped lips, bearing incontrovertible testimony that he had braved death once more.

Taciturn drops of water served as a reminder that this time, he hadn't fought with a sword or his wits, but with his very blood. Blood … blood everywhere, smeared over Jack's body, coating Billy's hands while they worked their merciless deed, and as she looked down, she realized that her hands were awash with the red stain of heavy guilt. Jack's blood … she almost laughed hysterically at the irony of it; until this moment the blood on her hands had been figurative, a filth chained to her as though she were a ship's mast.

Throughout the course of the surgery, she had knelt on the table, his head in her lap. Billy had not made one single incision when she realized that the image would forever be branded in her mind. His face, contorted with pain would forever haunt her nights, as would the inexplicable trust she found in his eyes, cutting her heart more deeply than any scalpel.

Jack Sparrow didn't trust anyone, and yet he trusted her to protect him, his look as accusing as a child's when Billy's ungentle fingers finally revealed she couldn't spare him the pain. He had struggled like a captured animal, unwilling to give up what little control consciousness offered him, but in the end, he had surrendered to the powers of suffering and passed out. He was still unconscious when Billy took up his despicable tools and wrapped them, sullied and unwashed into a shred of cloth. He jammed them into his bag, which looked to Elizabeth to be more similar to the Reaper's scythe than a surgeon's case; his thick lips were brimming with joy when he gave his final advice.

"Take care that you change the dressing. Every two hours or so, the new ones will be fouled. Best to be vigilant…" Billy grinned as Jack's head twisted and wrenched in fever. A fresh blot of crimson stained and marred the purity of the white strips Elizabeth had painstakingly shredded herself. With his macabre smile, he started toward the door, followed closely by Tai and his men whom Kate had beckoned to leave; they had done their duty, restraining Jack's flailing body, incision after incision, accepting his blows as they would the chides and blows of a superior officer. All any of the comrades, brothers bound by the honor of blood could do was to wait; wait for him to die, wait for him to live, only the long, crucial hours of the night would determine his fate.

The moment Billy's foot crossed the threshold of the front door; Kate released a sputtering shiver that she had suppressed the moment the surgery had begun.

"Despicable man; I think we ought to take advantage of his absence and air the room of his disagreeable stench. Throw the window open," she ordered, glancing sideward at a bunch of dirty linens which lay in a tidy, bloodied pile in the corner next to the door awaiting the opportunity to be burned.

Elizabeth rushed to do the mid wife's bidding, infused with new energy from Kate's orders. The kitchen window was thrown open and a burst of fresh afternoon sea air swept into the room like a sigh of relief. Elizabeth's tired features pulled upward into a smile. Jack would have loved an afternoon like this on the open water; if he'd been conscious he'd have approved heartily of leaving the window ajar. In that way, the tantalizing scent might keep fresh his undying love of the sea; perfume from an old flame.

"When he's more settled, I'd like to sweep the room and burn sage. To cleanse the bad spirits away…" Kate's grey eyes which had once been dour and downcast regained their luster as she tossed the dirty basin water into the bushes and refilled it with clean water from the pitcher.

"We'll need fresh cloth and scalding hot water…What on God's Earth…" Kate's voice trailed away, stolen from her by the growing din in Elizabeth's foray. Frowning, Elizabeth opened her mouth to question Kate, but they fell silent. The door to the entry hallway had slammed open, interspersed with the clipped footfalls of a person in a hurry. Had the Butcher returned to finish off his patient? Protectively, Elizabeth drew her pistol from her sullied apron pocket and drew back the hammer, her shoulders squared for a confrontation.

The kitchen door was thrown open, rattling on its hinges. Elizabeth spun out, her pistol drawn, aimed squarely at their company's chest.

"Where is he?" Teague growled his voice heavy and his shoulders heaving with fatigue.

"Who?" Elizabeth questioned stupidly, stunned by his distraught appearance. Teague, from her observation, had run from the heart of town, sans coat, hat and walking stick. He was exhausted from his exertion, but the burning madness in his eyes showed no symptoms of the infirmity of age.

"My boy…" His voice dropped in timbre as he brushed past Elizabeth and moved through the door frame. Teague's restless eyes fell on Jack's feverish state, the twist and turns of his head as he shivered with chills. As they drank in the sight of his son's face; Teague wobbled forward like a man who'd lost his sea legs and his strength.

His face drained of color as he caught sight of the bandaged wound; the bleeding hole covered with white so treacherously close to Jack's heart.

Teague unleashed a muffled cry and in an instant, Elizabeth had a firm grasp around his arm, bodily pulling him away from the sight that had broken them all. It was unfitting for a man such as Jack to be seen in such a base, human condition. Worse; Teague's distress at the sight of his only son prostrate on what might be his death bed was like a shot to her heart.

"I always said that one day; the life he led would get him killed. But not like this…," Teague murmured, his great power stolen from his body. Elizabeth struggled to lead him into the parlor room. He dropped wearily into the arm chair, his head in his hands. Elizabeth labored in vain to find the words to console him.

"He's quite weak…," she began, but one glare from Teague silenced that avenue of discussion. He didn't want to hear a grim prognosis, not from her lips.

"If there is any hope in our current situation …" Her voice lingered heavily on the word 'our'. It was their shared fate, and when she saw the older man's distress she realized it resonated so heavily in her heart because his grief and anguish was all she was not allowed to emote.

"Death terrifies him. He will fight for life, as he ever has. The man who braved the Kraken and lived is one who will not bow his head to a simple shot wound." Elizabeth reached for Teague's hand, and after it had rested above his soothingly, he took her smaller, delicate hand into his larger, time worn fingers.

"You know about the Kraken?" Teague quizzed with a hint of a smile in his voice. Elizabeth felt a slow blush climb to her cheeks; an episode of her life she'd sooner have forgotten.

"Jack spun the story into gold. Of course I know of the Kraken," she lied, patting his hand with a soothing air. If Teague knew the truth of how it was Jack had met the Kraken, she didn't doubt that she'd be facing the explosive end of his temper and his pistol.

"I owe you an apology, lass. You've done a good deed, what with taking him in and all. You're very kind…I'll pay you for your troubles…" Teague's masterful voice was as soft as wool and his eyes could not meet hers. The voice that had rattled brave sailors into submission had humbled, weakened by the threat of loss. It was the cracks in the foundation of his strength that summoned tears to her eyes, not Jack's condition. On his account, she felt strangely numb.

"Your son would have done as much for me, were our situations reversed. You owe me nothing." Teague's lips parted in protest and affectionately, in a gesture that was meant to baffle him into silence, she pressed her lips to his forehead, an act reminiscent of a doting grandchild.

He blinked, his mouth pressed into silence in bewilderment. They had always been fond of each other, but they were never the type of souls to express their regard. They'd looked after each other with the impression that their friendship was implied by never outwardly declared. Of all the strangers in Shipwreck City, he was the first to take her in and treat her with kindness, offering her shelter from a storm that had seemed unbearably bleak to face alone. To look after his son in this, Teague's greatest hour of need was hardly a burden.

"What you can do is to take your rest and save your strength. We shall all keep watch at his bedside to tend to his bandages. For that we'll need a pair of well rested eyes." Teague nodded slowly; he had never in his life submitted to the persistent badgering of a woman, but Elizabeth was so empathically kind in her entreaties that he had no choice but to surrender.

Kate's firm steps interrupted their dialogue; she stood on the threshold of the parlor, her arms folded sternly across her chest, a stark frown twisting her features. The patient was becoming unruly in his delirium and was starting to spout phrases in mad tongues. If she were a superstitious lout, she'd have thought him possessed by the devil. Having a good head on her shoulders was one of her better endowed traits, though that did not make her any less squeamish when it came to remaining in the room alone with him.

"Elizabeth, I have him undressed and I think its best we bathe him," Kate interrupted pointedly; there was no time for heart touching scenes when work was left undone. If he died; they might all gather together in the parlor and weep the loss of an indistinct life. The scenario was much easier to imagine than the thought of his surviving his surgery. If he lived, he'd make a very unruly invalid given the nature of his incoherent ramblings.

"I beg your pardon?" Elizabeth went very still, her body and face rigid with tension. Kate sighed impatiently; she loathed having to repeat herself, particularly when she knew the person she'd spoken to had heard perfectly well the first time she had spoken. A flush raged through Elizabeth's cheeks and she felt the heat of embarrassment singe her body down to her toes. Bathe him? It was preposterous and positively out of the question! Why it was undignified for her to do it. Not to mention, what if Jack were to come out of his delirium? Oh the horrible insinuations and badly worded puns that would exit his mouth would be excruciating. Absolutely not!

"This is no time for modesty Mrs. Turner," Kate invoked Elizabeth's married name to remind her that their efforts wouldn't be anything to corrupt her maiden eyes.

"The man stinks like a pig, no offense your lordship," Teague waved off the insult with a flutter of his hand as though he'd thought as much on numerous occasions.

"With all the dirt and Lord knows what else that's on him, the wound will fester and may become infected again. You want to give him the chance at life? Find the thickest bar of lye soap you have and follow me."


	9. Chapter 8

**Chapter 8**

The brownish piece of soap lay in her right hand like a heavy stone, almost counterbalancing the bucket she was carrying with her left; the water Elizabeth had fetched from the pump outside was bright and clean, a stark contrast to the copper-coloured sludge that had filled the bowls and cans they'd used to wash away the blood during the surgery. She found the cleaner water more disturbing; it had nothing to do with surgery and everything to do with the man who lay on her table. Jack was still lying on her kitchen table, a white bandage adorning his chest to soak up the blood still seeping from the open wound. While she could have easily borne the sight of an angry bullet hole, she found it impossible to gaze at his stripped form, more impossible still to give his body a sponge bath.

No, she decided, Kate would have to do this alone. After all, the midwife didn't know him, had never talked to him or kissed him - '_Killed. Never killed him_,' the nagging voice inside her mind corrected - and in the unlikely case that he should wake, she would be the one to bear his sarcasm. There was no way that she, Elizabeth Turner, should face Jack Sparrow as naked as his mother bore him.

Setting down the bucket in front of the kitchen door, she called for Kate to hand her the soap, reluctant to turn her head in a direction that might make her eyes catch sight of something she didn't want to see.

"Do you have water and soap? Then bring it in!" Kate's voice came from inside; judging by the scent floating past Elizabeth's nostrils, she was burning sage.

"I …," she began, and then realized she sounded like one of those foolish girls she had despised in the days when she'd been living in her father's custody; she could envision them fainting or cackling like crows at the mere thought of a naked male lying on their kitchen table. On the other hand, this was her kitchen table, and the man lying on it …

"I can't," her voice squeaked, hardly louder than a whisper of wind.

"Bollocks. Come in." It was unmistakably clear that Kate wouldn't tolerate any excuses, and the ones Elizabeth had come up with were flimsy indeed. With a deep sigh and a grit of her teeth, she picked up the bucket again and tip-toed into the kitchen like a timid fawn, careful to keep her gaze fixed on a pitiful looking potted plant on the window sill.

"If it's of any comfort to you: He has nothing you or I haven't already seen," she heard Kate say, and there was no avoiding the bemused chuckle in her voice. Elizabeth found it somewhat hard to believe, considering Jack's legendary status, but then again, legends didn't get themselves shot, so perhaps other parts of him were human as well. That didn't mean, however, she actually wanted to be acquainted with them. Studying the plant's brownish leafs, which looked almost as unhealthy as Jack's ashen face, she clumsily put the bucket down; a considerable amount of water splashed on the floor, and following its liquid trace, Elizabeth thought that some watering might do her house plants good as well.

She was on the verge of searching for her long neglected watering can when a heart rendering moan, followed by an inarticulate stream of words brought her back to reality and the task at hand. Rumbling noises arose behind her, like someone was pushing a heavy piece of furniture, and Kate's suppressed groan told her that Jack was probably caught in a feverish dream, thrashing about and flailing.

"Elizabeth, for heaven's sake …," the harassed midwife gasped, "help me hold him down or he will tear himself open!"

"Better to tear himself open than take me apart for seeing his privates," Elizabeth thought in desperation, and before she could prevent it, she'd said the words out loud.

"I need you to hold down his shoulders, not his privates," Kate said behind clenched teeth, considerably out of breath and more than irritated by Elizabeth's uncharacteristically prudish behaviour.

She knew her husband's Captain as a strong-willed and independent woman who had never shied from whatever life's confusing trails demanded from her, but ever since Captain Teague's unlucky son had come into play, Kate hardly recognized her.

There could be no doubt in Kate's mind that there had been more to their past relationship than had met the eye. Tai – blind as ever when it came to those things – hadn't been able to perceive it but there would be plenty of time to inquire about that later. She needed to coax Elizabeth's help before Jack, who, in his agony, had developed remarkable powers would knock her off her feet. "If he gets himself hurt, we might need to fetch Billy again."

The threatening prospect of the surgeon's return worked as a better motivator than Kate had dared to expect; slowly, Elizabeth turned around, her eyes squeezed shut as if afraid to be blinded by the light.

"Drop the soap into the bucket and come here," Kate commanded sharply, using the stern voice normally reserved for panicking husbands on the verge of fainting even though it was their wives doing all the work. Surprisingly, it helped; Elizabeth finally looked up, momentarily petrified, but she managed to summon her strength. She rushed to the other woman's side, pressing her complete weight down on Jack's jerking shoulder.

The resistant fight he had managed throughout the surgery had done nothing to wear him out, and they were both struggling to calm his quaking body, still convulsing under heavy attacks of fever. Kate watched Elizabeth intently as she pulled one of her hands free and rested it on Jack's scorching forehead, unusually exposed without his headscarf. Leaning over him, she forced herself to focus on his twisted face. "Jack," she said firmly, repeating his name, over again until he calmed. Breathing heavily, he submitted to her touch and pressed his cheek against the palm of her hand. Elizabeth lifted her head, a relieved smile brightening her strained features, and Kate returned the smile. "Well done," she whispered with some admiration, wondering how the younger woman in all her nervousness had managed to reassure him with just her voice; apparently, even his unconscious form appreciated her presence.

With all the anxiety Jack's seizure had created, Elizabeth had nearly forgotten about his delicate condition. Muscles aching, she straightened herself and stepped back, only to find herself facing a battered human body the nakedness of which only added to his undignified situation. The strings she felt latch to her heart ever since she'd recognized Jack's face on the beach were frayed to the point of tearing, but she found she couldn't look away. She was hypnotized by the pitiful sight that almost seemed like a silent accusation to her, reminding her of events better banished to memory, a wealth of words regretted and left unspoken.

Without the attire and grand gestures, the great Captain she'd read about in her youth crumbled to dust, never to be revived again. Elizabeth had never perceived Jack as a tall man, but his rather impressive ego had always made up for the missing inches. Lying on her kitchen table, unconscious and bloodied, she couldn't help but recognize that he was rather small in physique, not much taller than herself and considerably smaller than Will.

The hard work he carried out at sea had provided him with a well-muscled chest, strong arms and thighs, but even several layers of muscle couldn't disguise his agitating loss of weight. Beneath the bandage covering his wound, his ribcage was clearly visible, and if she had dared to have a closer look at lower regions, she would have been sure to find protruding hipbones, the left one graced by the artfully inked image of a Chinese dragon that wound itself across his hip and thigh. Finally, Elizabeth managed to tear her eyes away. Squeezing her eyes shut, she swallowed hard in a fruitless attempt to get rid of the lump that had taken up residence inside her throat.

"Not a pretty sight," she heard a comforting voice behind her say, followed with a hand that rested lightly on her shoulder. Unnoticed by Elizabeth's overstretched mind, Kate had left her place at Jack's side, sensing that it was no longer their patient who was in need of her comfort. "You knew him well, did you?"

Elizabeth nodded, still unable to talk. It was all becoming too much to bear; Jack's return, accompanied by the strain and anxiety of the surgery, and now the discovery that not only his injury, but years and life had taken their toll on Jack Sparrow. In her memory, his image had always been that of the legendary rogue, unchanging like the rocks, but the man who had braved death itself more than once was no more—and surprisingly, it hurt. "It's been ten years," she whispered tonelessly, as if to convince herself. "No, almost eleven," she added, thinking that it should matter, somehow.

"It's a shame, really." The midwife seemed to be reading Elizabeth's thoughts, her thumb rubbing softly across the younger woman's shoulder. "I think that under different circumstances and in another life, he'd have been one of those who age well. There's not a single white hair on his body."

The mere thought of spots on Jack's body that might grow hair made Elizabeth spin around so unexpectedly that Kate almost fell backwards; in a quick-thinking motion, she grabbed both of Elizabeth's shoulders, holding herself steady, but her saviour's body was limp and if it hadn't been for the table coming in their way, they both would have collapsed to the floor.

"Elizabeth, what the bloody hell is wrong with you?" Kate shot at Elizabeth, out of breath and unwilling to endure any more of the persisting absurdity.

"You two had something of a romantic understanding, am I right?" It was by no means a profound suspicion, more of a stab in the dark, but the immediate reaction it provoked seemed to suggest a hit.

Elizabeth gasped for air, then retorted a little too sharply: "Don't be silly. Of course we didn't! I was already in love with Will when I met Jack."

"Love doesn't have anything to do with it," Kate stated as a matter of fact. "He may be bruised and battered now, but he wasn't ten years ago. And besides, he has quite a reputation…"

Glaring at the midwife as if she was trying to petrify her with her stare, Elizabeth struggled for words, a rarity in her life. There was no denying she felt as though she were child caught pilfering sweets from the pantry. Not due to Kate's words, of course, for they held no truth at all, but because she had let her emotions get the best of her. There was no talking herself out of this – oh how she envied Jack for that skill! – and to limit the extent of the damage her behaviour had caused, in this case, probably called for the tiniest part of a half-truth.

"I was 20," she began slowly, still uncertain of what she wished to confide, but Kate was quick to offer aide.

"Is that supposed to be a 'yes'?" she inquired insistently, cocking her head in a demanding gesture that seemed designed to ferret out the truth. Elizabeth felt cornered, and seeing that Kate wouldn't rest until she'd gotten a partially satisfying answer, she decided on a well-measured step into dangerous territory.

"Well, his looks were not exactly that of an ogre, so maybe I suppose I was temporarily infatuated with him. But it was short lived and I never got any closer than …" She realized she was babbling, speaking too fast in a voice that was too high-pitched to be taken seriously, and Kate's curled lips and narrowed eyebrows were quick to remind her of it.

"Very well, I may have kissed him." Her insides seemed to transform into a tight ball at her own words, and unable to stomach the memory of the kiss they'd shared onboard the Black Pearl, much less its consequences, she directed her thoughts to the previous afternoon's near-kiss, surprised it had survived in her memory for so many years. "Almost."

Kate unleashed an angry snort, her face coated in thinly-veiled scepticism, but before she could come up with a reply that would have been dripping with sarcasm, no doubt, Jack came to Elizabeth's rescue. With a mournful cough, he reminded the two quarrelling women of his presence, and Elizabeth had to stop herself from spinning around guiltily at the realization she'd momentarily forgotten about the state he was in. Kate, on the other hand, found it difficult to suppress her disappointment at the lost opportunity to press a very promising story out of the Pirate King herself, but professionalism won over curiosity and she commanded with returned practice: "Let's get this over with and tuck him into bed. He needs warmth and rest if he wants a chance at survival. Since you've already kissed him, I suggest you take care of his face so you don't have to deal with any unfamiliar parts. I'll take the rest."

* * *

Long minutes were passed in heavy silence, the air between Kate and Elizabeth so thick it was nearly tangible. In any other situation, Elizabeth would have admired Kate for being straightforward and self-confident, but it was a unique experience to suddenly find herself at the receiving end of the midwife's stinging tongue. Even as a child, she'd hated being chided, and age hadn't exactly softened her temper. The distinct sting of having been outwitted was nagging heavily at her pride, and knowing that in her present condition, she wouldn't have stood a chance didn't help much, either. Kate Heung had made her look like a fool in front of Jack, and she could only pray that their exchange hadn't mysteriously found its way into his subconscious where it would most certainly arise to haunt her in form of endless teasing.

The water-filled bowl she'd placed on a stool next to the table was slopping over when she plunged the sponge in violently, and she had some trouble reigning in her temper so she didn't smack it hard across Jack's forehead.

Not for the first time, her life was on the verge of being pulled down a familiar maelstrom, a vortex of sheer trouble, and again, it was his fault. While she let the cooling liquid trickle on his heated skin, she wondered which strange twist of fate had brought him to Shipwreck City with a bullet in his chest.

In all the stir Will's discovery had created, she'd completely forgotten about the man that had threatened her boy, and now it was probably too late to go in search for him. Whoever had brought Jack here had navigated the rocks in a boat small enough to hide in the inlet down on the beach – a suicide mission, even for someone who knew the waters surrounding the Cove, and it was unlikely one of Jack's crewmembers, no matter how devoted, would have succeeded.

Near the open window, a seagull let out a mournful cry, and Elizabeth winced, pausing in her movement to look out into the blazing midday sun. Nothing unusual, a cloudless blue sky, and yet, it was different. It might have been a change in the wind or a turn of tide, too vague for her tired senses to discern, but there was something unsettlingly different about the day. She remembered a similar feeling of foreboding and change, years ago, when white sails had breached the horizon on her wedding day, and since that fateful afternoon, her life had never been the same again.

Forcing her attention back to Jack, she was relieved to find that the flailing had stopped. He was still shifting and moaning, but the dream he was caught in, though anything but peaceful, had lost its initial violence and horror. Elizabeth wrung out the sponge and began cleansing his eyes, carefully wiping away the remnants of dirt and crusted tears that stuck to his lids until she'd worked herself down to what looked like faint shades of kohl. It was strangely reassuring to find something she could immediately connect to the Jack Sparrow she'd once known, even though the paint was now covering a multitude of small creases surrounding his eyes which hadn't been there before; or perhaps she'd never taken notice of them.

"How old is he?" Kate's voice interrupted her musings, her casual interest clearly meant to be a peace offering and Elizabeth took it up gladly.

"I don't know …" Which was the truth, she suddenly realized. She had never given much thought to Jack's age, probably because years didn't touch a legend, but now found herself wondering about it. "He might be in his forties …," she guessed vaguely. "Though he may be older. You should ask Captain Teague, he'll probably know."

Elizabeth didn't turn her head for fear of another glimpse of Jack's naked form in its entire glory, but she could see from the corner of her eye Kate shrug her shoulders in resignation, unable to believe that one could even develop as much as a childish fascination for someone without knowing their age or history.

"He's been through a lot … obviously," she finally said, wisely refraining from another pointless confrontation. "I know Tai had some rough encounters in his life, but he looks nothing like that."

Elizabeth didn't have to look to know she was right. Jack Sparrow might have sacked Nassau Port without firing one single shot, but the stories didn't mention the bullets he'd caught himself, much less the flogging he'd received or the horrifying scar on his left forearm.

"He survived some kind of fire in the past … he has a rather spacious burn scar on his right thigh," Kate went on with her observations. "And another one on his side. I wonder where he got them." Her last sentence was spoken with emphasis, and Elizabeth sensed that she was trying to wring further secrets out of her – secrets as hidden to her as they were to the midwife. Jack's whole life, to her, had always been a thicket of lies and deception, punctuated with scattered glades of truth the number of which was far too small to answer only one of Kate's unspoken questions.

"I have no idea, Kate," Elizabeth said, sounding impatient and strained. "I know next to nothing about him. We sailed together, we fought in the same battle and he saved Will's life. Well, he might have saved mine, too. That doesn't mean he cared to tell me his entire story from birth."

"So am I to believe that Elizabeth Swann, the governor's daughter, met a pirate and didn't ask him one single question?"

Elizabeth sighed. For once in his life, Jack had been right: If you wanted someone to believe you dishonest, you only had to tell the truth. With a smirk, she wondered how Kate would react to Jack's pompous revelations on himself, and how long it would take him to make her lose her temper.

"I strongly advise you to wait until he wakes and ask as many questions as you'd like," she smiled slyly. "It will be interesting to see what you make of his replies."

For a split second, she felt a tang of triumph, but it was quickly shattered by Kate's painfully accurate realism. "I might not get that chance."

The blunt statement retrieved a truth she'd almost managed to block: Jack had survived the surgery, but the waters he was sailing were still far from the road to recovery. With an unexpected tenderness that came as a surprise, she brought the sponge to the sweat-slicked skin on his throat and ran it down across his collarbone until the bandage got in the way. He felt unnaturally hot, and she couldn't shake off the feeling that despite the cooling water, his temperature was steadily rising She knew enough of wound healing to know that the fever would eventually lead to either his recovery or his death, but with every passing minute, it grew more difficult for her to believe that he'd ever manage to escape the delirium his body was imposing on him.

Wracked with guilt at her dismissive words, she found herself unable to bear his pain-contorted face any longer and picked up the bowl to pour its contents into an empty wine barrel and replace it with fresh water from the bucket. She was about to turn her attention back to Jack's burning face and upper body when something caught her eye. Though the whole of his portrait, a still life in muted colours seemed distorted, one feature was so decidedly wrong Elizabeth's mouth fell open in silent protest when she'd finally made it out. The lower half of Jack's face, up to his aristocratic cheekbones, was covered in what looked like a rat's nest, and the unkempt strands of hair surrounding his features didn't exactly distract from the impression of his being a wild man. Clicking her tongue energetically, Elizabeth made her decision. What little dignity there was left for Jack to have, he should be allowed to keep – and not once throughout their acquaintance had his beard looked anything but tidy, and whatever one might have thought of his hair, he'd always taken great pains to make it look clean and reasonably neat. In fact, it had been the only part of him he'd apparently cared to wash from time to time. Putting the bowl back onto the stool, Elizabeth turned and walked out of the kitchen, her steps resolute and certain almost buoyant with the realization that she finally knew what to do.

"Where are you're going?" Kate called after her, awaiting another outburst or display of unjustified panic, but Elizabeth's reply came promptly: "Fetching a comb – and Will's shaving kit!"


	10. Chapter 9

_A/N: Thanks so much for your feedback, everyone. As always, it's greatly appreciated :)_

* * *

**Chapter 9 **

_The sun sat fat and sated in her throne among the skies, her face a fiery grimace surrounded by a cerulean magnitude that blinded his eyes whenever he tried to look at it. It had been a long voyage; weeks had turned into months until time had evaporated in the torrid heat, their abundant wishes melded into the sole desire for fresh water. The _Wench_ had carried them through, with her unascertainable pride, storms and calm, with the brilliant white of her sails and her perfectly shaped bow. When he lay in his cabin, alone, his musings surrounded by incense and dark smoke, he imagined he could still smell the fresh wood mixed with tar; she was not just a ship, she was his, her fine carvings and elegant interior only born to render service to his dreams, and he swore to himself that he would never abandon her. _

_Dehydrated and tired, he walked down the gangway with his head held high and at a well-measured pace; he found that the waves' never ceasing dance had guided his steps for so long it seemed almost impossible to counterbalance land's unnerving immobility. _

_He walked straight on, using his arms to keep himself from stumbling, but the dock moved farther away with every step he took. He quickened his pace, almost to a run, but the effort only brought a stabbing ache to his chest. The shimmering heat became impossible to bear, and when he forced his eyes to the skies, the sun was on the verge of tumbling down, as though she too were swooning from her radiating warmth. _

_In defiance of the pain he was in, he spun around to return to the _Wench_, determined to save his beloved ship, but when he turned, he saw her on fire, flames protruding from her hatches; on deck, countless people were scrambling and jostling, screaming in mortal fear--there were Gibbs, and Marty and – could it be? – Scarlett, he knew he had to save them, desperation filled his every fibre, but he couldn't move. An invisible force had taken hold of his shoulders and legs, pulling him to the ground with brutal determination. _

"_NO!" he cried in sheer panic, but his attackers wouldn't let go of him. Instead, he heard Davy Jones's mocking voice right above his prostrated form, his every word punctuated with a tap of his wooden leg. "100 souls," he hissed. "That was our agreement, Jack."_

"_But our debt has been settled!" His voice had dissipated into a hoarse whisper, every word another dagger to his painfully throbbing chest. Still he fought the powers that restrained him, unable to let those on his ship perish right before his eyes. "We have to help them!" he yelled with the last of his strength; with a last stab of pain everything faded into impenetrable blackness._

_Hours passed like long days; he was lying on his back, the ground beneath him the velvet texture of smooth water, his favourite element. Perhaps he was floating, safely carried by his first and only love until he'd reached some foreign shore, possibly Africa. Oh yes, he hoped it was Africa. For a moment, he allowed himself be swept away by the memory of drums carrying their hypnotizing rhythm through a starlit night, a woman anointing his lids with kohl while an outlandish melody rose above their heads in an eerie crescendo, smoke and firelight and … chains! _

_His eyes opened wide to escape the image, but there was no sky above him, no ocean below, only a strange, greyish fog that encircled him, the perfect definition of emptiness. There were voices. Far away voices, uttering meaningless syllables he found impossible to understand. He wanted to respond, but when he opened his mouth, he found he had forgotten how to speak, the languages swirling in his head creating Babylonian confusion that made it impossible for him to form a coherent sentence. He persisted, but no sound escaped his lips, nothing to help him break through the mist., Suddenly, when despair and exhaustion had weakened his endeavours, he felt something – no, someone - approaching him through his colourless prison. _

"_Jack … "_

Jack_ … that sounded familiar. His heart almost skipped a beat when he realized someone was calling his name._

"_Jack …"_

_There! He could perceive an oddly shaped form, and while his gaze remained fixed upon it, it began to grow features until he could discern eyes, nose and a mouth. A human face, without a doubt, though it seemed peculiar there was no body attached to it. He wanted to reach out and touch it, but before he could remember how to control his limbs, the face was shoved away. Hovering over him was Cutler Beckett, wearing his wig and a neatly tailored blue coat; seemingly unaware of Jack's presence, he was sipping on a lightly steaming cup of tea, every bit the distinguished gentleman. With all the time in the world, he put down the valuable china, careful not to spill a single drop before turning his attention to the man stretched out in front of him._

"_Hello Jack," he said softly, "I came for you."_

_Something cold pressed to Jack's forehead, and when he looked up, he realized it was Beckett's pistol. A shot reverberated through the mist, the rest was silence._

Elizabeth found it difficult to suppress a relieved sigh when Kate Heung shut the door behind her with an angry bang that made Jack wince in his unconscious state. The sight of the midwife's flowing skirts disappearing in the darkness of the hallway had left her with an undeniable feeling of relief; part of the ballast resting heavily upon her shoulders had lifted, and though she knew it might only be for a split-second, she savoured the gift of being able to breathe freely again. There were situations that called for a level head and quick, clear-cut decisions; Kate had provided both, but in exchange for her services, she had demanded something Elizabeth was not prepared to give: Answers.

Sensing her reluctance, the older woman had fallen back upon drawing her own conclusions, and in the end, Elizabeth had felt as if her every gesture was being mistaken for the display of intimacy. When they'd lifted Jack's limp body to put on one of Will's shirts and breeches, he'd raved like a wild animal caught in a cage, his fever-ridden mind a prisoner to dark fantasies the frightfulness of which she could only grasp through his panicking screams and desperate attempts to free himself. She had longed to give him something to hold on to, a tangible piece of driftwood in a vast ocean she feared he might get lost in, but every touch to his cheek, every caress alongside his throat or across his sweat-slicked forehead had been observed by Kate with triumphant glee until she'd barely dared to touch him anymore.

With Kate gone, Elizabeth felt nothing of the restraining embarrassment that had accompanied her ever since the surgery was completed. With regained confidence, she reached out to check on the cloth she'd placed on Jack's forehead and found it had already soaked up the heat emanating from his skin. Resolving not to interrupt the peaceful realm his mind had drifted to, she pulled the cloth away and plunged it back into the bowl placed on the nightstand, the splashing of the water the only sound in the quiet of the sickroom. Teague's sitting form was obscured by the semi-darkness the drawn curtains created. The old man's presence, however forceful was comforting despite his silence. There were no words needed between them, his slumped shoulders and grave air conveyed sadness so deeply felt it would have been a sacrilege to question it.

Captain Teague might have been a pirate feared by all of Shipwreck City and beyond; the man who sat beside her was nothing more than a father in his grief, not unlike her own father in his age and demeanour. Her heart became heavy with grief to look back at her younger self and find she'd only ever seen the Governor, never the loving parent until it was too late.

Overcome with tenderness for the old pirate, she lifted her head and smiled at him, but Teague seemed far too absorbed in his son's misery to take notice. His gaze was fixed on the dark spot slowly forming on Jack's bandage, and though she couldn't see his eyes, Elizabeth knew she'd find them wet with tears. The sight of the great Captain brought to his knees by life's cruelty sent an icy breeze down her spine, and caught in despair's iron grip, her own vision became blurred. Through a finely woven veil of shimmering pearls, she watched Teague's weathered fingers brush over his son's wrist, almost shyly, as if he didn't know if it was the correct expression of affection, a simple gesture so full of sorrow she felt like an intruder witnessing it. Embarrassed, she turned back to the bowl, fished out the cloth and wrung it out, in the process wiping her eyes; _pirates didn't cry_.

Her companion seemed to have come to a similar conclusion, for there was only the slightest trace of unevenness in his voice when he spoke: "Didn't seem too fond of leaving him alone with us, don't you think?"

At first, Elizabeth didn't know whom he was talking about, his words casual as if he was picking up the track of a momentarily interrupted conversation, but she realized he was alluding to Kate's departure. Clearly, she'd thought herself indispensable, but Elizabeth had been quick to praise her away with every trick in the book as soon as Jack was safely tucked into bed with a fresh bandage covering his wound; the wound had been left open to bleed, and the dressing would have to be changed every hour, but Elizabeth had managed worse.

"She was probably more worried about leaving us alone with him than the other way round; after all, Jack isn't doing anything that might be used as food for gossip." The sarcasm was dripping from her lips like vitriol, but the sting of Kate's insinuations was still too fresh to allow only the slightest feeling of remorse at her own injustice. "Not yet, that is," she added as an afterthought, a small ray of hope to inspire new confidence in Jack's recovery, and Teague's lips curled into a feeble smile. Bending over Jack, Elizabeth brushed some rebellious strands of hair from his face before she replaced the cloth on his forehead, and the cooling wetness made him moan in his sleep. Her hands lingered for a while, straightening the linen's edges, and while she was doing that, Teague's roughened fingers came to rest upon hers.

"I won't deny she did him great service today," he said quietly, reminding her good-naturedly that they had every reason to be grateful for Kate's services, "but I am glad you sent her away. It's worse enough he has us seeing him like this."

She didn't have to look at Jack to know he was right. Even though it didn't always appear that way, she knew Jack was used to being in control and have things go his way, the Captain's title he was so proud of an allegory for the independence and freedom he'd always sought in his life. Confined to his sickbed and bereft of his most faithful lover, he couldn't find the words to make them leave him. After his resurrection from the dead, he'd spent days in his cabin, licking his wounds and waiting for the pain to take away yet another piece of his trust; it was his way to deal with his temporary weakness. Nothing would have scared him more than the thought of someone watching his misery, and Elizabeth found it disturbing to think that amongst all the people he wouldn't want to see him like this, she probably occupied the foremost position, closely followed by Barbossa and possibly his father.

"Do you have any idea who did this to him?" she asked, knowing it was unlikely Teague had an answer to provide. The question, though completely innocuous, made his hand tremble as if her words had caught him off-guard, but his surprise faded so quickly Elizabeth came to the conclusion her mind must have been playing tricks on her.

"No. Haven't seen him," he mumbled, and, to emphasize on his statement, added: "for years."

"But you've seen him after …" Elizabeth startled, suddenly seeing the possible implications of his words. "You mean he's been here – again?"

"Again?" Teague seemed perplexed, and despite the dim light, Elizabeth thought she saw the lines in his face deepen. No longer sorrow-stricken, his eyes, glittering in the semi-darkness of the bedroom, were suddenly awake, as was his mind, and Elizabeth couldn't help but wonder what had put him on alert. She'd led their conversation into this particular direction to keep them from steering into deeper, more dangerous waters, and yet, it seemed the pirate had trouble navigating the rocks she hadn't known were there.

"Since the last Brethren meeting," she replied, unsure what kind of answer he'd been expecting and it appeared he felt quite similar, for it took several long moments for him to speak again.

"Ah, yes …," he said, the tension gradually leaving his silhouette. "I mean, no, he hasn't been here. Jack would never get anywhere near me if he can avoid it. And you would have seen him, wouldn't you?"

In fact, she HAD seen him. More than once, and on different occasions; he had been walking through the market in a dark green coat, his swagger as unmistakeable as the red head-scarf and the heavy braids falling down his back, but when she'd quickened her pace to catch up with him, he'd disappeared without a trace. Two years later, she'd seen him again; he had been standing outside her shop, looking through the window, but the moment she'd set foot on the street, it was as if he'd never been there. It was then she decided she had probably been victim of a trick of her senses. After she'd told herself that it couldn't possibly have been him, she never spotted him again.

"No," she replied, and if it hadn't been for Teague's odd behaviour, she would have been convinced it was the truth. Like his son, the Captain was known for playing his cards close to his vest, but his exhaustion and the strain of the past few hours had lowered his defences. She couldn't shake the feeling that he hadn't been completely honest with her. "But have you heard anything?" she dared to inquire further, careful not to defy his quickly rising temper, but her precaution proved unnecessary.

"I know no more than you, Elizabeth," he stated forcefully, and when Jack winced in his sleep, continued in a lower key. "It's only that the – how much is it now? – eleven years had me somewhat confused. When you're my age, lass, you'll see that you lose track of time. Hadn't realized it has been that long already – that's all. Regrettably, Jackie has never been one to write letters, and even if he was, he would hardly have mentioned any trouble he'd gotten himself into."

Elizabeth couldn't help but agree. Despite the year's softening effect on her memory, Jack's debt with Davy Jones and the disaster his silence had created was still fresh in her mind, and no matter what kind of trouble he was in this time, it was difficult to imagine there was anyone except himself who knew the exact details. Of course, that didn't change that Teague, despite his age, rarely lost track of time – nor did it alter her slowly rising suspicion that he was concealing something. Unfortunately, there probably wasn't a strategy cunning enough to plunder a secret from the master himself; it wasn't for nothing that Captain Teague had been made Keeper of the Code of the Brethren, and a man who was so scrupulous in guarding piracy's mysteries could be expected to be twice as devoted to his own. She was contemplating if it was worth trying to weed it out of him when a rattling breath scared her away from her musings. Dumbfounded, she lowered her gaze to Jack's sleeping form, surprised to find that he looked peaceful and calm; a child's innocence was gracing his features, his lips curled into a soft, carefree smile. Somewhere in his feverish dreams, in the midst of pain and torture, an unknown power had extended a hand to him, wrapped his shaking body in a pair of loving arms and caressed the pain from his sweat-slicked forehead.

"Encantadora Maria, yo te amo con ilusión," he whispered softly, his voice full of affection and unveiled tenderness for the person he was speaking to. Confused at his changed state, the feeling that he was gradually slipping away from life like a punch to her stomach, she gave Teague a questioning look. The old man didn't notice her. His eyes were closed, his shoulders shaking violently while he recited what seemed to be the continuation of Jack's poem:

"A quién le dare las quejas non gras de mi corazón." He spoke in a rhythmic chant, almost as if he were following a melody, and Elizabeth suddenly had trouble understanding what had passed between father and son right before her very eyes.

"What – what was that?" she asked, her bewilderment almost tangible.

"A song," Teague sighed. He slowly opened his eyes, making a reluctant retreat from the strange realm he'd allowed himself to step into. "One I haven't heard for … I can't remember..."

"The language--Spanish, wasn't it?" Elizabeth continued to inquire. She didn't know any Spanish herself, but had heard enough of it in her life to be able to recognize it.

"Yes." Teague nodded.

"I didn't know Jack knew any Spanish." She had seen him use French and Latin in the past, but it had seemed he'd only recited fragments he'd overheard elsewhere. The same might have been true for the myriad of incoherent words he'd bubbled out in his delirium, but his pronunciation of Spanish suggested that he had a more than profound knowledge of the language.

"Oh!" Teague exclaimed, obviously surprised. "Didn't he tell you? Jack's mother was from Spain.… " His voice was loaded with all the world's riches, glittering like jewels and ethereal like the moonlight caught in a pearl's polished surface while he went on with dreamlike determination. "Her name was Elena Benica Maria Hernandez, and those who had been lucky enough to lay their eyes on her for only a moment came to believe that heaven on earth existed…"

Teague's voice led her out of the closed bedroom, away from sickness and death, straight into the streets of Sevilla where, on a warm summer's evening, a young woman walked down the _Calle _to the _Plaza Santa Cruz_. The _barrio_ bustled.


	11. Chapter 10

A black silhouette swept across the _Plaza de Triunfo_, cutting through the golden evening light before disappearing in the welcoming shadow of the towering Cathedral. The veiled face threw a last, vigilant glance over a black-clad shoulder; hurried steps slowed to a halt in the protective shelter of an alcove. Leaning back against the cool stonework of the awe-inspiring building's outer wall, safe beneath the saints' watchful gaze, the figure drew a deep breath and, with a swift movement, escaped the veil's confining darkness. If anyone had born witness to the secretive event, they would have been surprised to find that the gesture revealed neither thief nor murderer, but a young woman of fragile, almost translucent appearance.

Everything about her, from the golden olive of the smooth skin covering her aristocratic cheekbones to the unfathomable depth of her black, glittering eyes, hooded with fatigue, seemed attributes of an otherworldly being rather than of a woman of flesh and blood. Indeed, there was no denying Elena, the second daughter of the _Marques_ Antonio Raphael Octavio Hernandez, had always been different. Earth's reoccurring miseries had no impact on her angelical existence, and even when she walked, her feet barely seemed to touch the ground. So far from the material world was she that those who saw her floating through the halls and corridors of her father's house couldn't help but think her a ghost. Wherever she went, her presence was but an ethereal breath of wind: a trail of fading sound, rustling skirts and the faint scent of lilies.

In the growing dusky rose light, she didn't care for the places or buildings she passed as she strolled with _Doña_ Yolanda, she viewed the world through a thin veil of pastel so she could discern the scents and whispers the passing spirits left behind. The past was banished from memory, the whispering spirits silenced by her painful mourning for the guileless ignorance of a childhood forever lost. Her thoughts no longer soared high amongst the clouds with the birds, but rested instead firmly beneath her feet, in the dusty streets of Sevilla, weighted by the knowledge of a secret she couldn't share. She needed a moment for herself in the streets of a city that had been home to her for 19 years; when the summer had passed, she would be gone, and no matter how fortunate the winds of her fate would blow, none would ever sweep her back to Sevilla.

They'd stopped, the doddering elderly woman and youthful nymph, at the Cathedral to say their prayers to the Holy Mother in one of the numerous small chapels framing the central _calle_. As was her ritual, Elena assisted Yolanda to her knees and kneeled beside her, waiting impatiently until her _niñera_ was hypnotically sequestered in her nightly prayers. Using the chanted vespers to muster her courage, she sprung to her feet and rushed past the richly adorned pillars, ignoring the accusing glances the Saints seemed to give her from their various resting places depicted in stained glass windows. She didn't stop until she was sure the feeble and decrepit _Doña_ wouldn't be able to follow her. Later, when the inevitable inquisition came, she would claim the overwhelming scent of burning incense had made her sick, forcing her to leave the church and rest in the shade of the cloister. No one would doubt _Doña_ Yolanda's fading eyesight had prevented her from finding her, and the incident would quickly be forgotten. Elena was not one to cause trouble, and though her unique qualities were a heavy burden for her to bear on her narrow shoulders, they had their distinct advantages--no one would suspect her of prowling around the city on her own..

* * *

When the ache in her sides had vanished, she stepped out of the shadows to see Sevilla for the first time in her life, an introduction that carried the bittersweet flavour of goodbye. In blissful ignorance of her status, she crumpled her veil and carelessly dropped it to the ground in a heap. She looked at it wondrously before she accepted the omen the image foretold and walked past it without a single backward glance. She crossed the _Plaza de Triunfo_, went past the _Puerta de Léon_ behind which the magical realm of the _Real Alcázar_ opened up and down the _calle_ leading straight to the river. She was fascinated by the wealth of colours, scents and voices, but especially by the people who passed without recognizing her. When she concentrated on them, she could feel their aura, shared in their happiness and grief. For a precious moment, she no longer felt the need to seek refuge in the regions beyond which opened up to her like a book written in a coded language few had the ability to decipher.

Elena could smell the river long before she saw its shimmer in the distance, a warm orange glint reflecting the evening sky in all its jewel-like resplendence. The _Guadalquivir_ was Sevilla's lifeline, a languid stream traversing the city with its ceaseless abundance and was the sole source of the city's legendary prosperity. During the _Siglo de Oro_, the white sails of the country's proudest ships, their holds loaded to the brink with gold arriving from the colonies, peacefully travelled the glimmering blue Atlantic and by the time they had reached Spain, the sea's purifying waters had washed away the natives' blood clinging to the magnificent riches.

In awe, Elena marvelled at the _Torre del Oro_, the tower that had guarded the harbour for centuries; the building had withstood the changing tide bringing war and peace, wealth and poverty, death and salvation and still stood proud, braving high waters and summers so dry the river would turn into a muddy pool, and she found herself wondering if her life yielded anything of comparable steadiness. In moments like this, she sometimes wished that her ability to see the future like others looked back to a faraway past would surrender its services to her own wishes rather than come and go as it pleased; the spirits providing her with a knowledge usually kept from mankind. As long as she could remember, she had been able to see what was meant to rest under the never-lifting mist of premonition, but it had never dawned on her that there was anything unusual about her gift until one day, almost 14 years ago, when her secret was revealed to prying eyes for the first time. She still remembered it with striking wealth of detail, and because she knew she wouldn't be looking back once she was gone, she granted herself the luxury of reviving her own past.

* * *

Her father had been beside himself with rage all day, for the return from several days spent with a friend in the country had yielded an unpleasant surprise. The loss of a purse filled with several gold coins was troubling the _Marques_, and soon, the whole house was trembling with various accusations, ranging from sloppiness, to theft, and, in the end, to murder, though no one could quite discern how the charges had escalated to slaughter. When Elena learned from her elder sister where the angered outbursts were originating from, she pulled a startled face and said: "But the purse is underneath the drawer in the dressing room. Don't you remember it fell out of father's coat when he took it off?"

Two hours later, when her words had proven to be true, the whole house was in uproar. Had the child taken the purse to play a prank on her father? Had she hidden in the dressing room for no particular reason and witnessed the mishap? No one listened to Elena's desperate explanation that she had known the location of the purse without having seen it or having entered the dressing room. A little girl's word was never taken seriously, much less if it required the acceptance of a supernatural explanation, but only one week later, everyone was disabused. Elena had woken in the middle of the night sobbing, claiming that a terrible accident was going to happen. Her dreams had been filled with the echo of hoof beats on a cobbled street, a sudden scream, and then, the horrible crunch of cracking bones. The silence that followed had been flooded with crimson, and when she woke, she instinctively sensed that what she'd seen was real. She was sent back to bed with a dismissive smile and a kiss on her forehead, but only few hours later, the family learned that Maria, the eldest daughter, had been run over by a carriage on her way to the Cathedral.

In a country ruled by superstition and religious fanaticism, Elena's gift was a dangerous one and might easily have brought the family into disrepute. While their peers might not have burned a child at the stake, there would have been little doubt in their minds that Elena was possessed by the devil and surrounded by the dark aura of deadly witchcraft. Even the _Marques_ and his wife came to see their daughter through different eyes, their looks no longer filled with tenderness but with veiled doubt and fear. In the days after Maria's death, they searched for Lucifer in the girl's distant expression, in the way she moved and the circles her little fingers drew absent-mindedly across the tabletop, but the only thing they found was a guileless child, innocent and completely free from only the slightest trace of malice that might have banished her as hell's wilful servant. Unable to see their daughter for anything else than their beloved _niñita_ they chose to shelter and protect her from those more gullible than themselves, and so she spent most of her time in her father's house under _Doña_ Yolanda's watchful gaze, never to cross the richly ornamented gate alone.

* * *

While she stood at the harbour and watched the fishermen prepare for their nightly foray, a feeling of immense solitude crashed over Elena, threatening to pull her fragile body to the ground. Admittedly, she had never been close to her parents, but the invisible bonds were made more tangible with the threat of loss and she felt she would never quite overcome it. When the spirits had revealed that she'd leave for a distant shore to find her husband, they had been mum as to whether she'd be able to love the man she was going to marry. Hard as she'd tried to find out, the question of her own happiness remained surrounded by thick, impenetrable clouds. Sighing, she watched the lights protrude into the slowly approaching darkness of the river, and when the blackness penetrated her soul, she shivered and turned to wend her way home.

The next morning her father announced that they had found a husband for her – an honourable man who cared nothing for her oddities or that she had already exceeded the age that saw young women married. Taking his entire positive attributes into consideration, it was of little consequence that he owned a plantation in a place called Hispaniola, somewhere on the other side of the world.

* * *

Everything happened as Elena had foreseen it. The last days of summer had faded into the fiery glory of autumn, her name was written down in one of the big, leather-bound volumes in the _Casa de la Contración_ where all the names of those emigrating to the colonies were recorded, and when the leaves began to fall, she found herself onboard a proud vessel sailing for the Caribbean. The ships carrying goods and passengers destined for the colonies left Sevilla twice a year, their cargo so valuable it would have attracted numerous pirates hiding in between the small islands, had it not been placed under the protection of the heavily armed _Armada_. They left on a Tuesday morning, the sun covered by grey storm-clouds chasing each other across the sky, juxtaposed with the feeling of lingering calamity that had taken over the _Marques'_ house. Down to the kitchen servants, every face was stricken with grief and sorrow at Elena's departure, and it seemed even the spirits were mourning the loss of their favourite companion. In the early morning hours before the maid came to wake her, she'd pulled the curtains from her bed for the last time, had bid the ghosts goodbye with due deference, and when all was said and done, she'd walked over to the aviary in which a multitude of colourful birds was chattering and chirping, taking her feathery comrades out one by one before releasing them into the cool night air. While she'd watched them disappear in the darkness, she'd felt that the time had come for her to spread her wings as well, and all fear and anxiety had left her, replaced by a new-found sense of peace and confidence.

She was calm, almost indifferent, when she bid her parents goodbye; only when her mother fastened an old family heirloom around her neck, a locket in the shape of a beautiful woman's face with locks of silver flowing hair adorning her visage, did a small lump form in her throat. Still the tears didn't come; with her unfathomable black eyes fixed on the horizon, she stepped onboard the _Santa Marta_, the brilliantly white sails of which would soon take her down the _Guadalquivir_ and into the open sea; her future had begun.

The fates had a curious sense of humour; when they conspired together on the subject of Elena's future they chose that her first encounter would not be an entirely pleasant experience. She had never before been forced before to abandon land's protective stillness; taken unawares by the waves and their age-old dance, she lay in her small cabin, blanket drawn up to her chin, convinced that she patiently awaited death. Her stomach churned and burned, each jarring toss of the waves set her into spells. Alicia, the maid who'd been chosen to accompany her to her new home wasn't of much help either---seasickness had them both over a barrel. Soon, the feeling of discomfort faded and was replaced by steadily growing curiosity; after a week had passed, Elena felt well enough to take a stroll on deck, taking in the new sensations.

It was a bright and sunny day, the azure blue of the sky merging into the water, and her eyes needed a few moments to adjust to the glaring light, breaching the waves with a diamond's sparkle. Elena's head was spinning with all the exotic smells and images only her sharpened senses seemed to perceive: Ginger, patchouli and cedar wood, the sweet odour of coconut and vanilla interlaced with the faint idea of foreign shores and the indistinct longing for a faraway place, somewhere beyond the skies. Lost within the overwhelming impressions that enveloped her like an invisible blanket, she let the wind caress her features, and suddenly, she could hear its voice, soft and melodic like the sea itself. The story it told was one of love and betrayal, of long forgotten promises and a broken heart, and many a night that followed, Elena cried herself to sleep, experiencing a pain so deep she found herself wondering whether it was she who felt it, or some desperate spirit reaching out to her in anguish.

Alicia tried to comfort her as best as she could, believing the strange ailment that haunted her young mistress was nothing but a natural dash of homesickness, and Elena did nothing to correct her assumption. The maid was well-acquainted with her oddities, but if she'd told her the truth, namely that a storm was approaching, blowing with a force that would bring about destruction and change, the poor girl would have been paralyzed with fear, and Elena was far too sensitive to let others see into a dark abyss they couldn't understand. She kept her premonitions to herself, locking them away in a part of her soul where they couldn't reach her mind until the time had come for the storm to break.

Elena felt a strange vibrating within her breast; they had reached Caribbean waters in the dead of night. She reached for her mother's parting gift, the necklace, and when her fingers closed around it, a soft melody woeful and sad, invaded her senses. It was the sound of a music box, similar to one she'd owned as a child, embedded and encased within the necklace's protective body.

Within seconds, she was wide awake, attentive to the tiniest detail of the events unfolding around her. The cabin was dark, and in the shadows, she could see Alicia's peacefully sleeping form, untouched by the uproar the spirits were causing. Elena tried to concentrate on their voices, to let them tell her what mysterious power had taken over the _Santa Marta_, but there were too many of them, shouting and whispering, crying and screaming, and before she could decide on the appropriate way to contact them, the ship was hit by a giant wave, the collision so violent she was tossed out of bed.

That night, all the demons of the sea had been let loose; the _Santa Marta_ was thrown back and forth as if made of paper, her sails were shredded to pieces and everyone on board was praying, beseeching all the gods and saints they'd heard of in their lives, and possibly some they'd made up themselves, too, to spare their miserable lives. It didn't matter anymore; even the Captain was overheard telling his first mate that before morning dawned, they'd all be at the mercy of Davy Jones, and nature's fury seemed adamant to illustrate his words. Waves the size of a house crashed over the tortured vessel, pulling brave sailors to the depths, and lightning broke the sky in regular intervals, bathing the scenery in a morbid parody of daylight, so eerie and grotesque some feared that if they closed their eyes for only one second too long, they might wake in the locker's eternal grasp. Only Elena was calm, a quiet smile gracing her fine-boned features while she sat in her cabin, her arms wrapped tightly around Alicia who was shivering and crying in mortal fear. Just as she'd known the whereabouts of her father's purse, as she'd foreseen her sister's death and her own marriage, she knew that the _Santa Marta_ would carry them safely through the night. The storm was not the end, only another step on a path the nameless powers were leading them down, and in a gesture designed to show she understood the meaning of her journey; she reached for the medallion dangling around her neck. Only seconds later, the storm faded into a mere memory, nothing more than a nightmare they'd woken from, and the heavy blanket of silence came down upon the darkened sea.

* * *

Captain Alastar Teague was in bad spirits--very bad spirits indeed. The gale that had caught the _Captive Swallow_ had torn them asunder, and now, in the light of the day, things looked even worse. It would take hours – no, probably days – to repair the sails, let alone mend the gaping holes the waves had torn into the rail. He had lost three men, a canon and one of his favourite guitars, and while the damage on his ship and loss of life troubled him greatly little, it was the instrument he mourned with such grave determination. There was hardly anyone on board who didn't fear his quick mind and quicker temper, and on a morning like this, a pirate who didn't cross his gun barrel or the sharp end of his sword was a lucky pirate.

He was hardly 25, but a worthy Pirate Lord, a Captain in his own right, and the nemesis of the Royal Navy. He was also the best musician in the whole Spanish Main; though not considered good-looking according to the standard of the day: a tall, gawky young man with a long, crooked nose and unruly black hair. However, when he began to sing, his fingers tenderly stroking the guitar placed on his lap, there was not a girl who didn't fall for him at first chord. Occasionally, he admired a pretty pair of eyes, a finely shaped nose or an open-hearted smile, but like all young men chasing the horizon in a futile attempt to find happiness amongst the waves, he forever claimed that his first and only love was the sea, the wenches of Tortuga sufficient company and a necessary evil when the creaking planks of his ever-faithful ship began to speak of loneliness. Alastar Teague had never loved until he came to learn that storms could change more than a ship's shape.

He had been checking a rope with a sour expression on his face when the lookout's piercing voice interrupted his dark musings. "Ship ho!"

The news didn't lift his spirits. In these waters at this time of the year, no booty worth mentioning could be expected. A few days ago, they had passed the Spanish armada, and though everyone knew of the legendary riches and the ships sailing in its protective company, no pirate considering himself of sound mind would have attempted to attack one of them. Teague, widely known for his daring and bravery, was no exception.

"Flag?" he shouted up to the crow's nest, sounding somewhat indifferent.

Some moments passed, and Teague supposed his man had some trouble assigning the colours, but Charles Dougald, widely known as 'Cross-Eyed Charley' needed time to digest what he'd seen.

"Spaniards, Captain," he finally replied. "And they're all by their onesies."

"What do you mean? Speak quickly man!" Teague asked back, impatiently. He was by no means in the mood for a pointless discussion with his lookout, and his hand instinctively went to the handle of his pistol.

"The ship bears the Spanish flag – but no other ship what's in sight."

Teague didn't contemplate whether he'd ever heard such nonsense; he pulled out his pistol and shot, missing Charley by inches and adding another hole to the sail instead.

"But Captain!" the frightened lookout cried, fearing for his very life. "I'm telling the truth! Look for yourself!"

Teague considered firing another shot, but looking down, his eyes fell upon the spyglass tied to his belt; on a whim, he pulled it out, deciding that he could shoot Charley afterwards.

He could hardly believe his eyes; there was, indeed, a ship! He couldn't quite see whether it was a Spanish ship, but it was alone – no ships in front or after. He climbed a few inches up the rigging to take another look from there, but apart from the fact that he could discern the Spanish flag, nothing had changed. He stood dumbstruck for almost a full minute until it dawned on him what had happened. The gale, as irksome as it had been, had granted them a favour: The ship they were facing had most likely been part of the fleet of merchant vessels sailing with the armada, but wind and weather had thrown it off course, away from its protectors, and right into the _Captive Swallow_'s grateful arms.

"Out on deck, you filthy bilge rats!" he cried with renewed enthusiasm. "And make ready to board!" Maybe it was his lucky day, after all.

* * *

Elena was not surprised when a wild-looking, unwashed man stormed into their cabin with an outstretched sword. As soon as it had become clear that their bruised ship would fall victim to a pirate raid, a shaking cabin boy had been sent below to inform them of the mishap. His face had been white, a stark contrast to his dark, fear-stricken eyes that seemed to protrude from his scrawny features as he announced their certain death; Alicia had immediately collapsed with a frightful wail. Elena had tried to calm her with reassuring promises, tender hands and a voice so soft one could almost grasp its warmth, but the frightened girl couldn't take anymore. They'd barely survived the previous night's storm, and the strain had been too great for her to bear.

Sensing that there was nothing she could do for her maid, Elena finally left her sobbing silently on her bed, turning herself to more pressing matters. In an almost dreamlike state, far detached from what was happening around her – miles from the thundering of the canons and the screams – she opened the large trunk that had been placed inside her cabin and took out everything she thought to be of value: the jewellery, the lace and the brocade. She even took off her dress and the pulled the silver combs from her hair, placing them on top of the heap she'd orderly arranged upon her bed. In her undergarments and with her black locks falling in soft cascades down to her waist, her mother's necklace the only possession she'd allowed herself to keep, she sat down with her hands folded in her lap, waiting for what was to come.

She didn't know much about pirates, only that they were known to be criminals, cruel and merciless, which somewhat contradicted her seemingly unmoved state, but Elena hadn't forgotten about the vision she'd had in Sevilla: She was going to marry, and no pirate could change anything about destiny's choices. Her husband was waiting for her at Hispaniola, and she would reach him. So firm was her belief that when said pirate stormed into her cabin, she almost fainted at the sudden realization crossing her mind like a bold of lightning: HE was her future husband, the man she was going to marry.

Alicia was still sobbing in her corner, unwilling to look up while Elena Hernandez and Alastar Teague gazed at each other for the first time. He didn't speak or move; he stared at her as if she was a mermaid or another mystical being he'd heard talk about but never seen himself. Her eyes locked with his, and the world around him faded away. All sounds merged to the soft melody of a music box, slow and dreamy this time, and he thought that the cabin smelled like spring, even though he'd never smelled spring before. He tried to think of the sea, of freedom, of the riches they'd most likely find in the cargo hold, but all he saw was a pair of black eyes, belonging to a ghost, or to an angel maybe, and before he knew what he was doing, he'd dashed forward and grabbed her hand, pulling her up and out of the cabin. The gold and the silver, the lace and the brocade, remained behind, as did Alicia, who would later claim that Elena had been kidnapped by a dangerous looking pirate, seven feet tall, heavily armed and with a laugh so deep and cruel the whole ship had been shaking.

* * *

Teague, for his part, would later claim that he kidnapped Elena and told his men to abandon the Spanish vessel because he had expected a large sum of ransom for the daughter of a _Marques_. The truth, however, was far less pragmatic. From the moment he'd first laid eyes on Elena, his world fell apart and rebuilt to a white castle made of ivory with her sitting in the highest tower on a throne of clouds and morning dew. When his gaze wandered over her finely carved features, lost itself in the depths of her eyes, he became a poet and his song was forever hers. When he took her with him, he swore to himself that he'd never let her go again.

Elena, for her part, was too astonished to protest. She followed him up the stairs and on deck, past dead bodies and blood-stained planks, held onto him when he swung them both over to a ship she'd later know as the Captive Swallow, and even stepped after him when he pulled her into his cabin. It was there her trance ended; she pushed him out of his own quarters with a movement so quick he barely knew what was happening, and the last he heard from her for almost four days was the metallic clicking of a key locking the door.

Finally alone, she ignored the unnerving sound of his fists hammering against the wood and sat down at a vast table loaded with charts, notes and a collection of navigational instruments she'd never seen before. The room was rather dark, but several candles as well as a tasteful collection of East Indian and French furniture rendered it almost homely, and Elena sank back with a sigh, as content as someone in her situation could possibly be. A smile crept to her face when she looked around and spotted a large, turtle-shaped guitar, placed upon what looked like a pile of books carelessly placed in a corner, telling her that her captor was not only a pirate and a sailor, but also a musician and a man who counted books among his possessions. The thought of marrying him had lost its initial horror when he'd granted her a glimpse at his soul, a vulnerable heart hidden behind feigned toughness, and the guitar further convinced her that she wouldn't need to worry for her own happiness. Still, there was a part of Elena that existed beyond visions and ghostly visitors, a dreamy, melancholy part that believed in love and passion, and while she was sitting in his cabin, on his chair, going through his possessions, it told her to let him wait.

In the days that followed, Teague tried everything. He addressed her in a formal way through the cabin door, introduced himself and attempted to convince her that he would do her no harm, for he believed she was expecting him to rape and kill her. When, on the second day, he'd talked for almost three hours, it dawned on him that she probably didn't understand a word of what he was saying and he reverted to use of the few Spanish words he knew to Elena's great amusement.

She had been raised by a father who firmly believed that girls should receive a reasonable education, and though it had seemed she'd never paid attention to her tutor, she spoke and understood a fair amount of English, French and Latin. By the time he was starting to make use of his limited Spanish vocabulary, she knew everything about him, even the secrets he hadn't shared with her himself, and when he told her "_Es tu culpa que yo estoy embarazado_!" she was falling in love with him.

Believing that hunger and thirst would get the better of her rather sooner than later, he ordered the cook to serve the best of everything the scullery had to offer, but she still wouldn't open the door. She had never cared much for food, and though she felt dazed from the unfamiliar consumption of rum and port, the only drinks she could find in the cabin, she decided that it was worth waiting for one moment more and ignored the enticing smell creeping underneath the door.

On the third day, he began to sing. It seemed that he owned several more guitars deposited elsewhere on the ship, and his songs were as sweet and as the longing in his voice, telling her stories of love, loss and desire. She lay down upon his bed and listened, her head spinning from rum and something else, something she couldn't quite name, yet, and a single tear rolled down her cheek and onto his worn blanket. Elena never cried, but the first tear she'd cried since her childhood was one of happiness.

Teague was growing more desperate with the day. At first, he'd tried to be angry with her for leaving him at the ridicule of his crew, but nothing could have been farther from his soul's fragile condition than fury or any kind of emotion that wasn't solely directed at her worship. He felt he would never be happy again if he couldn't make her love him; he hadn't been near her for much longer than a few, precious minutes, but he knew his life would be forever wasted and empty if she wasn't with him. At night, he paced the deck, sleepless, until he ended up at the door to her cabin – _yes, it was hers now_, leaning his head against the wood and savouring the feeling of being near her.

After three days spent on the fine line between desperation and hope, between love and pain, he found himself on the verge of giving up – on her, and on himself. The stars had never seemed as bright and yet so far when Teague contemplated ending it all. He knew he wasn't quite himself anymore, and the crew was plotting a mutiny, unable to forgive that he'd let the Spaniards' riches slip through their greedy fingers, but everything seemed to fade into meaningless forms and shadows when compared to the vexation he'd been seized with the moment he'd entered Elena Hernandez's cabin. Caught in melancholy's grip, he strolled across the bridge when a faint voice floated past his well-trained ears. He stopped and listened, discerning words and a melody; the tune sounded a little off, but the song was like a cooling breeze to his overheated mind, pulling exactly the right chords on the strings attached to his heart, and when he recognized the language the lyrics were sung in, his decision was made. Without second thought, he went looking for the source of his temporarily restored hopes, and when he'd found the stupefied crewman, he ordered him to teach him the song.

* * *

The first rays of morning light were creeping through the windows when Elena woke with a start. Even before she knew what was going on, moments before the first familiar chords breached her mind, she knew something was different. The change was perceptible in the soft shades of violet the sky painted across the bedcovers, in the comforting movement of the ship and in the way she could feel Alastar Teague's presence, waiting outside the door with the ever-present guitar resting in his lap. When the melody began to unfold, filling the whole cabin, the entire ship and every corner she could possibly imagine Elena rose, her naked feet almost floating above the ground.

_Encantadora Maria, yo te amo con ilusión…_

With few, hurried steps, she was at the cabin door …

_A quién le dare las quejas non gras de mi corazón._

… she turned the key.

* * *

Two hours later, she was lying in his arms, lips ghosting over his scratchy cheek while his roughened hands caressed her sweat-slicked back. Resting her head against Teague's shoulder, she shared her latest secret with him. "It's a boy," she whispered, "and his name will be Joaquín Armando Ramón Teague."

Unfamiliar with Elena's gift, he tore his eyes open at the revelation in shock. She smiled one of her reassuring, otherworldly smiles to add: "But we'll call him Jack."

* * *

**A/N**: _Es tu culpa que yo estoy embarazado!_ - 'It's your fault I'm pregnant!"

Many thanks fo **sparrowsswann** and **flowergoddess** for helping us with the Spanish!


	12. Chapter 11

A/N: Thanks for all the great feedback, mates! We really appreciate your reviews :)

* * *

**Chapter 11 **

White caps graced the heads of the tumultuous waves like a crown of gleaming snow, their pure color a perilous soothsayer of the ship's misfortune at sea. Dark clouds dropped horizontal sheets of rain that were dumped in intermittent showers that alternated between bucketing and downright torrential. Ahead, enshrouded in an ethereal veil of sinister mist, the _Cape of the Sinner's Tongue_ loomed, a mountainous fortress of black rock, deceitful in its singular modest dimensions. The anecdotes had made the thick canyon peaks seem interminable, impenetrable by a lowly ship comprised of weaker elements than that of ancient rock and the indomitable sea.

All winds blew to the Cape, the whispered stories insinuated that it was where Captains, made barmy by the temptation of the sea and who had no further desire to live led their unsuspecting crew to make their end, in an attempt to best what could never be crushed.

The mad psychosis of intrepid Captain Turner had led the stalwart crew of the _Captive Swallow _into the heart of a vicious squall, with a wind so ferocious that when applied to the sails, made the mainsheets squeal in bitter agony at the force. The brawny schooner was tossed like a child's plaything between the waves which resembled hands, nearly capsizing in the enormous strength of the surf.

Slip-sliding across the decks, the crew had transformed into drowned rats, knocked off their feet by the break of the water against the boughs, struggling to fulfill the duties rattled off in a storm of words more furious than the squall by their otherworldly commander.

"Capt'n." He was nearly swept off his feet by the rushing water; he clung to the mast as he might a lover, not anxious to be swept over board.

"Mr. Garrison," Turner bellowed into the wind; a footloose sheet was left flailing in the current of air, and the crew struggled to regain tension in the frayed ropes.

"We must drop canvas sir, or we risk being torn to shreds by the whipping winds. We'll be blown straight into the rocks..." His bootless cries went unheard, a sheathed telescope the only answer to his entreaty. Heedless of the crashing walls of sea which collided with the ship like an avalanche of water, Will sprinted toward the helm at all haste. If they deviated off the charts but a fraction, the ship would be another victim of the sea and if he survived, Will a hapless victim at the mercy of Teague's unflappable aim.

"Change of course, Mr. Garrison …," Will murmured with grim satisfaction, his eye sight fixed on their quarry. He'd wanted to search the supposedly haunted Cape in daylight, hoping to belay the superstitious fears of his comrades. Their last shred of hope, flimsy as the tattered fabric of the beleaguered ship's sails, was to venture into the heart of the Cape and into the hands of a greater fiend. He'd sooner take the wrath of a mortal, than the full fury of the heathen goddess, whose foul mood had turned the afternoon sky dark as the night, lit up with a zealous explosion of lightening that sparkled like a brilliant star in the water's unsettled reflection.

"Aye, Capt'n. What be your heading?"

Will jerked the wheel from the helmsman's hands, giving it a hard spin to the left. The rudder protested the abrupt shift and the _Swallow _jerked in retaliation, disinclined to take to her new bearing.

"Zounds, you're taking us into the rocks, sir? Calamity, we're done for sure!" Garrison lamented; the figurehead of the _Swallow _dipped into the swell, a smoother path that lead into a host of scattered rocks, aligned in such a way that the series of caves worn into the cliffs took the shape of a death mask, complete with a fiendish snake-like slithering tongue that adorned the slack-jawed opening of the rock face.

"Into the Cape—the cliffs will shield us from the storm. Our only chance, brace the sheets and prepare to furl."

Garrison hesitated, made apprehensive by the vehement gleam in William Turner's eyes. The storm had disturbed his tidy person, leaving the collar of his shirt open, the scar where his heart had been torn from his chest glowed red in the circling darkness, a reminder of the fragility of life and death. Yet, the man had who had been given the gift of immortality by the goddess Calypso had returned to the living land a mortal, and if he was unafraid to navigate the haunted straits, Garrison would take courage from his Captain's considerable foresight and strength.

"Brace the sheets and prepare to furl." The call, parroted by the other sailors clinging to rigging or whatever availed them a sure footed strong hold was echoed into the swirling mist as the schooner dipped down into the gorge of hell.

"Tighten those boom lines! Mind the jib!" Will's voice bounced between the cliffs, barely discernable with the screaming wind blowing at their backs. A rush of sea water pressed the schooner through the narrow opening, a crack of cleavage in a mass of black. The forked tongue of rocks drew the ship between the cavernous cliffs, an uneven line that stretched as far as the eye could see, disappearing into a thicker wall of fog. Beneath the rudder and keel, the sea boiled with rage, punishing the moss covered rock in fury, as the ship was tossed and narrowly avoided being torn asunder into a million fragmented pieces.

Hot air, like the warmth of putrid breath oppressed rather than liberated nearly knocking them off their feet with the fetid stench of death and gaseous sulfur. Portions of ships, long having met their fate in the Cape were scattered along the rocks, like grave markers, protruding from the water to serve as a reminder of bitter ends and dashed dreams.

"Hard to port! Hard to port!" Will shouted hoarsely; the sea was rough and the Cape walls so narrow that he'd taken to navigating from the stern of the ship, calling over his shoulder to his first mate and helmsman, both of whom had thrown their full strength on the wheel to prevent the _Swallow_ fromrunning aground.

"Garrison, look …," the helmsman hissed into his ear, the ship fishtailed, as though the sea had frozen to slippery ice; there was no stopping the inevitable collision—the ship would be permanently wedged between two solid boulders. Their foreseeable doom was not foremost on the helmsman's mind, however. His eyes had been directed to the sickening glow of another ship's lanterns, burning in the fog like the yellow eyes of a jungle cat, unblinking and all seeing, waiting for its prey to come within reach of its vicious claws.

"The Ghost Raider! We'll be a sitting duck—lost to the devil for certain," Garrison whispered in near-silent horror, his breath stolen from his chest. They'd wandered into a trap, a deceitful web of deadly rock, where the ghostly phantom lurked to finish them off if the rocks failed to do the job neatly.

The under current of the water took on the character of a swollen river, flooded by rain water and stirred by wind. They were riding rapids; the rudder was pulled sideways with a remarkable crack that outstripped the roaring voice of the thunder. Will was thrown from his feet onto the deck, as the ship rattled to a screeching halt. Aching from the cold rain and the force of the fall, he staggered to his feet.

Blast! The ship, if it survived the strait, would be listing near the scabbards and there was not a pirate friendly port within easy reach. He wondered what had enraged Calypso to stir such a storm; whether he'd not by some accident done offense to the goddess, and as a result she had ceased to favor him with friendly seas. Calypso flung the answer to his unspoken question in the form of a large swell that lifted the _Swallow _until it had nearly capsized. If they did not free themselves from the rocks, they'd be tipped to their side, all the men left to fend for their lives in the open gushing water. Will pushed himself up to his feet; his mind at a loss. It was madness to push the ship any closer to the gaping mouth of the cave where the current was leading.

"Madness, or brilliance?" He spoke aloud; his eyes alight with a fresh plan. "Starboard, angle the ship towards the cave, Mr. Garrison." A cowardly breeze of silence lingered in insubordination to his direct orders; he turned to face his crew but found none present, save for the brave helmsman, who struggled to do as his Captain commanded.

"Where is Garrison?" Will ran to the wheel and with a surge of strength and wet muscle, loosed the rudder. Joyful to be free, the _Swallow_ surrendered to the commands of the Captain, rushing with glee to the low hanging opening of the cave mouth.

"Overboard sir, poor blighter; lost to the sea." Will's hand released the wheel as though it had been burned, and he staggered against the force of the sea to the railing. Lightening flashed overhead; illuminating a path to a solitary figure, flailing in the wake of the ship.

"And you're just going to leave him?" His incredulity rose above the wind as he stripped off his coat and unbuckled his belt.

"Cast a line!" Will commanded sternly, furious that his men had gathered to watch their first mate drown, but had done nothing to help him from his plight. The crew sat fixed, their stares torn between the upcoming shrouds of ominous fog and the hazardous cave entrance.

"To stations, all hands to your stations." He'd not submit an honest sailor with a young wife and newborn child anxiously awaiting his safe return. Too long he'd been in the company of dead men, ferrying them to their place in the afterlife. He did not relish the reminder of his curse by bringing home the body of a good man in a wooden crate.

He took up a coil of rope in his hands, looping it at the elbow and prepared to launch it into the boiling sea. Garrison's screams for help pushed him into action, and he nearly cast the line when he was grabbed from behind by his men. Restrained, he fought like a desperate animal, unwilling to surrender.

"No, Capt'n Turner. It's too dangerous! Think of your family…" Will struggled against the hold of rough hands against his arms, jerking the length of rope free. He paused; Garrison's progress had stilled, he'd managed to cling to one of the great rocks to avoid being swept under by the tide. Turning, Will handed one end of the rope to the most burley sailor of his crew, his only assurance that there would not be two crude wooden boxes filled during the course of their venture.

"Whatever you do-" He tied the free edge of rope with a figure eight knot squarely across his chest. "Don't let go!" His men shook their heads, and barred his passage.

"Any man who falls behind gets left behind. Those be the rules…," one sailor interrupted, stepping into Will's path as they both became drenched with the sea. Shaking his loosened hair back to be free of the salt water that dripped into his eyes, he glared at any man who dared to defy him.

"Not on my ship!" He vowed fiercely as he leapt up to the wooden siding and before any man could prevent him from his folly, he dove into the heaving ocean, leaving his crew at the mercy of the rocks and an ever observant glimmering phantom light behind the fog.

He was fighting a ceaseless, unchanging current that pulled and tugged at his body, leading his fatigued, aching arms away from the petrified man. Salt stung his eyes and his lungs burned with fury, deprived of air as he took fewer breaths to urge his body on with greater speed. Two strokes forward, his powerful limbs pulled him closer to the rocks, where the water was steadily rising.

In the frantic cries of his men, who begged him to return with each breath he took, he thought he heard a feminine voice command:

"_Prepare to broadside!"_ Startled, he whipped his head around, transported into battle. The deck of the _Swallow _morphed from mahogany to pitch black and the sails dripped onyx. He saw Elizabeth, soaked to the skin, her body burdened by the weight of her soggy uniform. Her face had lost its virtuous softness as her eyes skimmed the horizon as though to read the intentions of their enemy.

"_Make ready the guns and prepare to fire!" _The choice to muster the cannons had been his, the decision to prepare for battle to defend a cause that was not inherently their own, Elizabeth's. Their voices echoed from the past; how young and unaffected by the world they had been, blissfully unaware of the life that would await them on the other side of the maelstrom! A swirling vortex of change, unassailable, inexorable, their fate had been sealed within one revolution.

The waters of the past were resurfacing; he was caught in the same revolutions, a current that recalled his crewman's parting words: 'Think of your family.' He dove into the treacherous seas without second thought, but Elizabeth's visage had recalled his mind to the duties and responsibilities he'd left behind. Her parting words too had been of the same element; home, family. Will's first thought had been for Garrison's prized possessions but not for his. Torn, he looked between the _Swallow_ and his drowning shipmate.

Elizabeth's stinging words at their parting had been cutting, but as he considered them, they had an edge of truth that was unmistakable. It was true that he made his decisions alone; there was what a man could do and what he couldn't. Courage was in his nature; he rushed in where lesser men stumbled—would Elizabeth love him any less if it were not an engrained portion of his soul? He sincerely doubted it, as she never struggled to sleep at night mulling her choices to send brave crewmen to their deaths in battle. He was not so fortunate to sleep with that same lightness of conscience; he couldn't drown the screams of the men trapped on the Dutchman during his interminable servitude. There was no choice when a man's life hung in the balance; if he could spare men of their journey to the afterlife, he'd risk all he had. He and Elizabeth were Pirate Captains, lords in their own right. They were leaders among men who searched for strength, but it had always been thus. It was so during the Maelstrom; it had been so in their daily lives in Shipwreck City. Their choices had always been made as unique individuals, always been made alone. His arms reached out to part the raging waters, as though the decisiveness of his touch and peacefulness of his soul might calm their fury.

"Garrison, you have to let go. I can't swim any further, I'll catch you." Will felt the rope around his chest pull taunt—he needed more slack! He tugged on it with a firm pull to indicate to the crew that they ought to give him as much rope as he needed.

"Captain!" Garrison yelped, releasing the rock to point to somewhere beyond Will's shoulder. From the corner of his eye, Will caught a flash of movement, like the break of a wave on the bough of a ship. Blinkingly, for his eyes were covered with a thick film of salt water, he squinted into the distance. A ship! The lanterns twinkled unmistakably, through the halo of fog that enshrouded its movements. A rough wave crashed over it, temporarily clearing the fog and though it may have been a trick of the light, he thought he saw a mast, with sails as black as the storm clouds that lingered above.

Shaking his head, Will wrenched his eyes closed and opened them again. The ship was gone, the mist had cleared and all that lingered were Garrison's terrified shouts. Disoriented by his hallucination, he struggled to make out all of the words, but one was unmistakable.

"Raider!" The wet twine around his chest cut abruptly into his skin, and the weight of the ship pulled him back with a rush. Water gushed over his head and the speed of the rope pulled him underwater. Kicking, paddling and twisting, he did what he could to free himself of its dangerous pull. His lungs were seizing, his heart pounding into his throat for genuine fear. The rope which had been a life line had become a liability, a pathway to certain, and most gruesome death. Two divergent currents met, pouring with such force that along with the pull of the rope, his body became stationary. His thrashing, resistance to his fate weakened and he felt his limbs retreat with defeat. He'd soon meet his fate in Davy Jones locker, a hapless soul trapped to sail on the Dutchman forever. His mind snapped to rapt attention and with a fierce struggle, he loosened the rope around his chest enough to reach into his boot. His father's knife, a symbol of a promise made long ago was reborn anew a symbol of his freedom.

He sawed and cut, hacked away at his bond until at last, the silver blade had done its duty and he was free. The rope slid away in the current and Will powered himself upward. With a sputtering cough, he surfaced, drawing air into his fragile lungs and taking in his environment in the same long breath.

"Garrison!" He hollered into the face of the storm, defying it to answer. He was infuriated with himself for not having anticipated the dangers of the rope, more so with his spineless crew who'd defied his orders and sailed away to honor the code.

"Here!" Will scoured the cliff walls to ascertain the location of the weak cry, and he saw that the force of the water had driven Garrison to cling to the cave opening, downstream. He treaded water, his eyes analyzing the strength of the swells, the position of the ship and his first mate's location. He had a plan!

His arms ceased to tread, his legs no longer kicked, rolling over to his back, he capitulated himself to the current of the sea, resisting only when the path led him toward sharp rock. Downstream he traveled, his speed increasing as the howl of the wind over head was magnified by the echo of rock. Yes, he was nearly there; he turned his eyes to the _Swallow_, scrutinizing the formation of the waves. He shot out his arm and with a tight grip, wrapped it around Garrison's shoulders, ripping him away from the alcove. They traveled together downstream, with a force so furious with the lightness of their combined berth that they outstripped the speed of the struggling _Swallow. _

"Cast a line!" He ordered again, his fury heard over Calypo's antagonism. A rope sailed his grateful hands, he gripped it hard. Garrison had collapsed; blood poured from a seeping, angry head wound, a battle scar from the terrors of nature.

"Heave! Heave!" He groaned as little by little, they rose from the depths, flew into the air, and landed in a soggy puddle on the deck.

"Rations of rum for Mr. Garrison, see to it his wound is cleaned," Will gasped, rolling to his back to rest in his exhaustion. He was wracked with an inexplicable chill, but it was not from the dampness of his attire. There was no responsive movement to his commands, not an answer or a word to greet him, no cheers of joy at the rescue of their comrade. There was only marked silence, broken only by the crashing tide; he knew from the shivers of his spine that he was being observed by a bizarre, haunting pair of eyes, he heard the man's foul breathing as he stomped across the deck with the stride of a giant. They'd survived all the perils of the storm save for one---the monstrous Ghost Raider!


	13. Chapter 12

_A/N: Thanks so much, dear readers, for sticking with us all the way to chapter 12. I guess this could be considered the end of part 1; in part 2, there's a lot more sparrabethy goodness to come, though Will, Teague and the mysterious Raider will get some screentime as well :)_

* * *

**Chapter 12 **

'Breathe steady, in and out', Will ordered his heaving chest to follow the rhythm of the waves crashing against the hull of the _Captive Swallow_. He wrenched his eyes closed, knowing that if he looked up, he would be faced with a monstrous grimace staring down at him with bared teeth, a horrible laugh waiting to be freed at the sight of fear-stricken sailors. He was dripping wet from his venture into the cold waters of the Cape, but the racing shivers running down his spine were the result of several layers of ice that had wrapped around his heart when he'd sensed the presence of the powerful being hovering so close to him he could feel its breath ghosting over his skin. A frosty breeze froze his whole being as the creature's shadow fell upon him, drawing the air from his lungs and erasing his every conscious thought.

'The stories are true,' He panicked as the creaking of the planks and shifting of clothes revealed that the monster was kneeling down beside him.

"William," it said, mimicking a strangely familiar voice. "Are you alright?"

'It's a trick,' Will told himself. 'He's trying to lull you into a false sense of security, and then, he'll strike.'

To a straightforward and courageous man like the _Captive Swallow_'s Captain Turner, deceit as employed by the Raider was not only despicable, it was an abominable weakness; his foe's flaw restored his confidence. Death was an inevitable fate, but he refused to die as a coward, lying on his back with his eyes closed with fear. If nothing else, he owed a breathtaking end to his legacy to pay tribute to his son! He rolled onto his stomach and crouched on his knees, surprised to find that his attacker wasn't instantly upon him. Gaze fixed on the _Swallow_'s deck; his eyes followed the trail of a pearly water droplets travelling down his hair and onto the wet planks as, little by little, he lifted his head prepared to face the devil in all his hellish glory.

At first, he thought it was the fog, or the veil of wet locks dangling in front of his face, but as the scene came into prominence, he realized that the Raider's features were as familiar to him as the warm voice that had spoken to him. A balding forehead hidden beneath an old fashioned, somewhat oversized hat, a pair of kind, compassionate eyes and a warm smile was all the invitation he needed to cast caution to the winds and throw himself into "Bootstrap" Bill Turner's waiting embrace.

"Father," he gasped, laughing from relief and the realization of how easily his ridiculous fears had faded into thin air. Looking over his father's shoulder, he could see his crew resting on their knees, heads bent in preparation to pledge their lives to the Captain of the Flying Dutchman. He freed himself from his father's tight clench and called out to reassure them: "Get up! You have nothing to fear!", and, as an afterthought, added to Bill: "That's right, isn't it?"

"Aye," Bill Turner replied with a smile. "All is well, thanks to you." He threw a sideward glance to Garrison, who continued to bleed, looking at them with the same mixture of surprise and horror as all onboard awaited the awe inspiring Captain of the Dutchman to pronounce his final judgement. "Saved the man, you did."

"I am their Captain," Will spoke simply. "It's my duty."

Bill's face was full of admiration for his son, and when both had gotten to their feet again, he patted his shoulder with unconcealed pride.

"Speaking of duty," Will whispered in a low voice aware that their conversation was closely monitored by the uneasy crew. "Shouldn't you be doing yours? We both know Calypso and her fury …"

"True enough …" Bill smiled. "But it seems Calypso is pleased with your choice. She can be made amiable when her Captain …" He paused and grinned almost shyly. Through the absence of solid light, Will thought he imagined the burning heat of his father's flushing cheeks.

The thought of Calypso and his father added a lightly disturbing cloud to the bright blue sky of reunion, but a furrowed brow was his only commentary on the subject. Bill, ever a man to keep his own council, seemed disinclined to follow the subject any further; Will chose not to press him.

"Besides," Bill finally continued cheerfully, "I am in the thick of duty. How was I to know you would cheat your fate?"

"Was it really that tight?" Will exclaimed, suddenly aware of the peril they had faced. Reviving the minutes spent in the water, he trembled, and Bill gave him a worried glance. "You're dripping wet, son. Better go to your cabin; a blanket and a nice bottle of rum ought to do the trick, eh?"

Will grinned. In the years he'd spent with his father, they'd grown to know and love each other, but it seemed that despite his age and status, Bill couldn't help but see the little boy who needed to be scolded and coddled. It had been unnerving; there were nights in which they'd done nothing but argue. What troubled him most was he found that when he left the _Flying Dutchman_ to its new Captain, he'd missed the bickering. It was almost soothing to find nothing had changed between them, and without putting up further protest, he nodded and turned to his address his crew.

"Back to your positions, men and remember my orders!" Some were reluctant to believe that the presence of the legendary Dutchman wasn't to be seen as an ill omen, but the rough waters and Garrison's gaping wound absorbed their attention, leaving father and son to savour each other's company.

Will threw a blanket around his shoulders and reached for a bottle of rum he'd left on the table the night before. The liquid burned its way down his throat and across his insides, but the initial fire soon faded, leaving him with pleasurable warmth that stole the numbness from his frozen limbs. He gestured to a chair to make his father sit down and he allowed himself to fall into Teague's large, overstuffed chair, unleashing a heartfelt sigh. The day's events had taken an unexpected turn, and it dawned on him that he needed to discover whether it was for better or worse.

"So," he began, stretching his legs and pulling the wet boots from his feet.

"So," Bill replied, still smiling.

"Why are you here?" Will's question sounded harsh and immediately regretted he'd burst out with it so forwardly. He was happy to see his father, but there was something amiss about his visit. He found himself wondering if his father, a man known for his guileless honesty was not playing him false.

"I already told you," Bill answered patiently. "One of your men was on the verge of drowning, and to be quite frank so was the _Captive Swallow_. Have more care with your ship next time, William."

"And that's all?"

"Perhaps I wished to see my son," he smiled, but when Will cocked his head inquisitively, he sighed in defeat, adding: "To ask him why it is he's back at sea so soon."

Will slumped back in his chair; his father's words ached like a punch to his stomach. Elizabeth had asked him the same question, as had his son; he'd asked himself as well, but he had no answer to provide, apart from his resolute knowledge that what he was doing was right.

"I had to do it," he said plainly. "You've heard about the wretch known as the Ghost Raider. His foolish actions against ships belonging to the trading companies have led to the Royal Navy doubling their presence in these waters. If we don't put a stop to it, Shipwreck City will soon be without supplies. Most haven't been able to do serious pirating for months, but they're a superstitious lot and believe he's a ghost or some kind of monster …"

"And you don't?" Bill lifted his brows, seemingly unconvinced of his son's explanation.

"No! I believe the raider is human!" Will retorted fervently, feeling cornered. "He steals gold – what's a ghost going to do with gold?"

"Well spoken, son," Bill acquiesced; the corners of his mouth were already travelling upward and for a split second, Will expected Jack Sparrow's golden grin rather than his father's friendly mocking smile. In the years they'd spent together on the _Dutchman_, Will had found it difficult to picture a bond of friendship between Jack Sparrow and Bill Turner, but there were moments, such as this one, when the similarities in character were downright uncanny.

"And still, I cannot shake the feeling that it was a ghost you were expecting when I stepped on your deck."

'Oh yes', Will granted with silent resignation, Bill Turner and Jack Sparrow were both quick-witted, swift to pick apart their opponent's weaknesses, and swifter still to exploit their friends'. He was embarrassed that his obvious fear had gotten the better of him; fortunately his father wouldn't make him suffer for it long.

"Don't blush, it's not befitting of a Captain," he said, reaching across the table to touch his son's arm. "It was an uncomfortable situation and you were exhausted. Besides, the Cape is an eerie place. Haunted even--though it may not be the Raider whose ghostly voices echo through the caves at night." He smiled, but his eyes were cloaked with the veil of memory.

"You know," Will spoke slowly, easing into territory he deemed to be dangerous, "when I was in the water, trying to reach Garrison, I thought I saw a ship. Well, not the whole vessel, just the lights, somewhere beyond the rocks." He was convinced the ship he'd seen was the _Flying Dutchman_, but if his father was in the mood to spin a yarn, the observation might inspire him to share more of the Cape's secrets.

"Lights, you say …," Bill replied, thoughtfully stroking his chin. "There are the stories; dark tales of ships that split on the rocks when attempting to navigate in the dead of night …Many a brave sailor has lost his life –" He paused and looked down at the table, picking up a pair of chart dividers to turn them between his restless fingers. "Many an innocent sailors have perished needlessly…How many more must suffer to bring the chapter of dark evil to rest..." He continued to study the polished brass, carefully choosing his cryptic words. "What do you know about the Company's trade routes?" he asked, eying Will with a curious expression on his face.

"Trade routes?" Will was puzzled. "What does any of this have to do with trade routes?"

"Think: You've said the Raider is preying upon the Company's ships, clearly there's something on board he might find valuable."

"Gold," Will stated bluntly, unable to glean his father's point. "Or cargo. Something he can sell or put to good use."

"Aye." Putting the chart dividers aside, Bill braced himself on his elbows and leaned over the table, gazing at Will intensely. "Now put your wits to it. To sell or spend his booty, he has to step out of the shadows …"

Meeting his father's even stare, Will brought his fist down on the table, so hard the whole cabin seemed to shake. _Damn!_ He ought to have been smarter than to sail into the Cape blindly. He'd almost lost a member of his crew, and having lived the dangerous waters, they were all fortunate they'd escaped with their lives. The realization nagged heavily on his conscience, and he forced his attention back to what his father's words.

"So you're saying if I knew what his booty is, I might be able to trace his steps," he said with a frown that deepened with every passing second he spent studying the curious expression coating Bill's features. The elder Captain had retreated to the protective shadows of its extensive brim, aware of his son's stare but Will declined to throw in his hand.

"Wait!" he exclaimed, fearing his father might disappear to become part of the sea's eternal legend again. "You know the Raider's identity!" He jumped to his feet, glaring down at Bill with eyes glittering dark like obsidian.

Bill looked up, his face bathed in candlelight; the tiniest trace of regret sprang from his voice while he spoke: "I have told you everything I can." He fell silent, lost in memories so painful he wished he'd buried them along with his heart. "I made a promise," he whispered, unable to look his son in the eye. "And I swore … never to breathe it to another soul."

With a swift, almost catlike movement, Will started pacing the cabin, the sound of his bared feet against the wooden floor the only sound.

"I was once Captain of the _Flying Dutchman_," he began, his nails digging into the palm of his hand to prevent himself from yelling at his father. "The concerns of the living are of no interest to Calypso; the Raider is nothing but a man –" He stopped next to his father's chair and dropped to his knees, bracing himself on the armrest. "A _living_ man!"

"He is," sighed Bill. "At least if …" He seemed to lose track of thought and turned to Will, resting his hand on his son's. "Calypso has nothing to do with it," he said softly. "My promise was made years ago, and if I broke it, you would never see what lies beneath."

"What!" Will burst out in surprise shaking off his father's hand; Bill rose to his feet, a mysterious smile upon his lips at his son's bewildered expression.

"Take my advice, as it is all I can give…" he said, walking around the chair to move it back to its place. "Study the Company, in lieu of the Cape. The answer, my son, doesn't lie between these rocks…." He gestured to the window where the towering Cape slowly disappeared in the fog still surrounding them as if they had been swallowed by a gigantic beast.

"Start in Tortuga, you'll do well there." Knowing what was going to happen, Will reached out to him, to prevent him from vanishing into the vaporous mist.

"Tortuga?" Will repeated with a baffled voice but the Captain of the _Flying Dutchman_ was gone before he could even touch his sleeve. His voice, however, was still reverberating through the cabin, an otherworldly echo that almost sounded like a curse.

"Tortuga! There are uncharted waters in every man's heart, Will," his father's voice said. "And they're full of shoals and monsters."


	14. Author's Note

Dear readers,

since Chapters 1 to 12 form Part I of this story, we decided to post Part II as a new story the link to which can be found at my story-list.

We'd like to thank you for your constant support, feedback and concrit. Without you, Cape of the Sinner's Tongue wouldn't be what it is now – a novel-length fanfic that will hopefully be finished by the end of the summer. We realize that especially for our dear shippers, it's often hard to read through chapters that focus on characters you dislike or have no mention of your favourite pairing, so it means a lot to us you've been sticking with us anyway. We promise there'll be more romance in Part II.

We hope to see you at _The Cape of the Sinner's Tongue – Part II_!

Ladyofthesilent and Savvysparrow


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